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New Vork Puh"^ by ITT Pearson,. NT60 Cliff' Sc. 



^^u^nSc /^//z-^^^-^ 



THE 

v\^ORKS 

OP 

R T BURNS; 

COxNTAINING HIS LIFE; 

BT 

JOHN LOCKHART, ESQ. 

t 

THE POETRY AND CORRESPONDENCE 

OF DR. CURillE'S EDITION; 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POET, 

BY HIMSELF, GILBERT BURNS, PROFESSOR STEWART, AND OTHERS ; 

ESSAY ON SCOTTISH POETRY, 

INCLUDING 

THE POETRY OP BURNS, BY DR. CURRIE; 

» 

BURNS'S SONGS, 

FnO.M JOHNSON'S " MUSICAL MUSEU3L" AND "THOMPSON'S SELECT MELODIES ; 

SELECT SCOTTISH SONGS OF THE OTHER POETS, 

FROM THE BEST COLLECTIONP, 

WITH BURNS'S REMARKS. 

Poar.nN'n, in one work, the truest exhibition or the man anb the poet, and thb 
rni-LEST edition of his poetry and prose writings hitherto published. 



HARTFORD: 

PUBLIStlED BY JUDD, LOOMIS,. & CO. 

AND SOLD BY THE PniNCIPAI- BOOK.SEM.ERS IN >THE UNITED STATES, 
1837. 



il«t HUTCHESON. 
25jQP«S 



NOTICE 

J TO 

'^,, THE PRESENT EDITION. 



^. 



In the Dedication of the Life of Burns by Dr. Currie to his friend Cap. 
tain Graham Moore, the learned Doctor thus expresses himself as to his 
Editorial office : — " The task was beset with considerable difficulties, and 
** men of established reputation naturally declined an undertaking, to the 
« performance of which it was scarcely to be hoped that general approba- 
" tion could be obtained by any exertion of judgment or temper. To such 
*' an office my place of residence, my accustomed studies, and my occu- 
" pations, were certainly little suited. But the partiality of Mr. Syme 
*' thought me, in other respects, not unqualified ; and his solicitations, 
« joined to those of our excellent friend and relation, Mrs. Dunlop, and of 
" other friends of the family of the poet, I have not been able to resist." 

These sentences contain singular avowals. They are somehow apt to 
suggest, what we have all heard before, that some are born to honour, 
while others have honours thrust upon them. The Doctor's squeamishness 
in favour of persons of established reputation, who might be chary of a tick- 
lish and impracticable, if not an odious task, is in ludicrous contrast v/th the 
facts as they have since fallen out. Have we not seen the ma^er-spirits 
of the age, Scott, Byron, Campbell, honouring in Burns a kin<^ed, if not a 
superior genius, and, like passionate devotees, doing him h'^^ge . They 
have all voluntarily written of him ; and their recorded rpinions evmce no 
feelings of shyness, but the reverse : they not only hwsour, but write as if 
honoured by their theme. But let us leave the subject, by merely pointing 
attention to the Doctor's mode of treating it, as a decisive test of the evil 
days and evil tongues amidst which the poet had fallen, and of the exis- 
tence of that deplorable party-spirit, during which the facts involving his 
character as a man, and his reputation as a poet, could neither be cor- 
rectly stated, nor fairly estimated. 

It is true. Dr. CuiTie's Life contained invaluable materials. The poet's 
auto-biographical letter to Dr. Moore, — indeed the whole of his letters, — 
the letters of his brother Gilbert, — of Professor Dugald Stewart, — of Mr. 
Murdoch and of IMr. Syme, and the other contributors, are invaluable ma- 
terials. They form truly the very backbone of tlie poet's life, as edited by 

1 



( ii ) 

Dr. Currie. They must ever be regarded as precious relics ; and however 
largely they may be used as a part of a biographical work, they ought also 
to be presented in the separate form, entire ; for, taken in connection with 
the general correspondence, they will be found to be curiously illustrative 
of the then state of society in Scotland, and moreover to contain manifold 
and undoubted proofs of the diffusion and actual existence, amongst Scots- 
men of all degrees, of that literary talent, which had only been inferred, 
hypothetically, from the nature of her elementary institutions. 

We have no wish to detract from the high reputation of Dr. Currie. 
It will however be remarked, that the biographical part of his labours, 
as stated by himself, involve little beyond the office of redacteur. — He 
was not upon the spot, but living in England, and he was engaged with 
professional avocations. If truth lies at the bottom of the well, he had nei- 
ther the time nor the means to fish it up. Accordingly, it is not pretended 
that he proceeded upon his own views, formed, on any single occasion, after 
a painful or pains-taking scrutiny ; or that, in giving a picture of the man 
and the poet, he did more than present to the public what had come to 
him entirely at second-hand, and upon the authority of others ; however 
tainted or perverted the matter might have been, from the then general- 
ly diseased state of the public mind. The Life of the poet, compiled under 
such circumstances, was necessarily defective, — nay it did him positive in- 
justice in various respects, particularly as to his personal habits and moral 
character. These were represented with exaggerated and hideous features, 
unwarranted by truth, and having their chief origin in the malignant viru- 
lence of party strife. 

The want of a Life of Burns, more correctly drawn, was long felt. This 
is evident from the nature of the notices bestowed, in the periodicals of 
the time, upon the successive works of Walker and Irving, who each of 
them attempted the task of his biographer ; and upon the publications of 
Cromek, who in his " Reliques," and " Select Scottish Songs," brought to 
light much interesting and original matter. But these attempts only whet- 
ted and kept alive the general feeling, which was not gratified in its full 
extent \intil nearly thirty years after the publication of Dr. Currie' s work. 
It was viiA until 1827 that a historian, worthy of the poet, appeared in the 
person of Ivir. John Lockhart, the son-in-law of Sir Walter Scott, and (ra- 
ther a discordiJit title). Editor of the London Quarterly Review. He in 
that year publisind a Life of Burns, both in the separate form, and as a part 
of that excellent rej^rtory knovra by the title of Constables Miscellany. 

It is only necessary to read Mr. Lockhart's Life of Burns, to be satisfied 
of his qualifications for the task, and that he has succeeded in putting 
them, after an upright and conscientious manner, to the proper use. It 
certainly appears odd, that a high Tory functionary should stand out the 
champion of the Bard who sung, 

" A man's a man Iot a' that :" 

and who, because of his democratic tendencies, not only missed of public 
patronage, but moreover had long to sustain every humiliation and indirect 
persecution the local satellites of intolerance could fling upon him. But the 
lapse of time, and the spread of intelligence, have done much to remove 
prejudices and soften asperities ; to say nothing of that independence of 
mind which always adheres to true genius, and which the circumstances 
in the poet's history naturally roused and excited in a kindred spirit Mr 



( "i ) 

Lockhart, It will farther be observed, besides having compiled his work un- 
der circumstances of a general nature much more favourable to accurate 
delineation, likewise set about the task in a more philosophical manner 
than the preceding biographers. He judged for himself; he took neither 
facts nor opinions at second-hand ; but inquired, studied, compared, and 
where doubtful, extricated the facts in the most judicious and careful man 
ner. It may be said, that that portion of the poet's mantle which invested 
his sturdiness of temper, has fallen upon the biographer, who, as the poet 
did, always thinks and speaks for himself. 

These being our sentiments of Mr. Lockhart's Life of Burns, w^e have 
preferred it, as by far the most suitable biographical accompaniment of the 
present edition of his works. It has been our study to insert, in this. edi- 
tion, every thing hitherto published, and fit to be published, of which 
Burns was the author. Tiie reader will find here all that is contained 
in Dr. Currie's edition of 1800, with the pieces brought to light by all the 

respectable authors who have since written or published of Burns The 

following general heads will show tiic nature and extent of the present 
work. 

1. The Life by Lockhart. 

2. The Poems, as published in the Kilmarnock and first Edinburgh edition, 

with the poet's own prefaces to these editions, and also as published 
in Dr. Currie's edition of 1800; having superadded the pieces since 
brought forward by Walker, Irving, Morison, Paul, and Cromek. 

3. Essay (by Dr. Currie), on Scottish Poetry, including the Poetry of 

Burns. 

4. Select Scottish Songs not Burns's, upwards of 200 in number, and many 

of them having his Annotations, Historical and Critical, prefixed. 

5. Burns's Songs, collected from Johnson's Musical Museum, the larger 

work of Thomson, and from the publications of Cromek, Cunningham, 
and Chalmers, nearly 200 in number. 

6. The Correspondence, including all the Letters published by Dr. Currie, 

besides a number subsequently recovered, published by Cromek and 
others. 

The whole forming the best picture of the man and the poet, and the only 
complete edition of his writings, in one work, hitherto offered to the public. 
Besides a portrait of the poet, executed by an able artist, long familiar with 
the original picture by Masmyth, there is also here presented, (an entire 
novelty), a fac-simile of the poet's handwriting. It was at one time mat- 
ter of surprise that the Ploughman should have been a man of genius and 
a poet. If any such curious persons still exist, they wiU of course be like- 
wise surprised to find that he was so good a penman. 



New York, Sept 11, 1832. 



CONTENTS OF BURNS'S WORKS. 



OF THE LIFE. 

Page 

Chap. I. — The Poet's Eirtli, 1 759— Circumstances and peculiar Character of his 
Father and Motlier — Hardships of his early years — Sources, such as they were, of 
his jyiental Improvenient^Commenceth Love and Poetry at 16, ^ ^^„„ i-->'nii 

Chap. II — From 1/ to 24 — Robert and Gilbert Burns work to their Father, as 
Labourers, at stated Wages — At rural work the Poet feared no competitor — This 
period not marked by much Islcntal Improvement — At Dancing-School — Pro* 
gress in Love and Poetry — At School it Kirkoswald's— Bad Company — At Ir. 
vine — Flaxdressing — Becomes tlierc r\Jember ot' a Batchelor's Club, ..«-.~-,~.~w^ ix— xiz 

Chap. Ill — Tlie Brothers, Rol)ert nnd Gilbert, beciime tenants oi" Wossgiel— 
Their incessant labour and moderate li.ibits — The liirni cold and unfertile — Not 
Prosperous — The Muse anti-c;ilvinistical — The Poet thence involved deeply in 
local polemics, and charged with heresy-, Ciirious account of tliese disputes — 
Jiarly poems pron]j)ted by them — Origin of, and remarks uj)on die Poet's prin. 
cipal pieces — Love leads him far astray — A crisis — The Jail or the West Indies 
— The alternative, ^ , , , ^..„.^,^^^„„.. xx — xxxi» 

Chap. IV. — The Poet gives up Jlossgiel to his Brotlier Gilbert — Intends for Ja- 
maica — Subscription Edition of his Poems suggested to supply means of outfit- 
One of 600 copies printed at Kilmarnock, 1786 — It brings him extended repu- 
tation, and £20 — Also many very kind friends, but no patron — In these circum- 
stances, Guaging first hiiited to him by his early friends, Hamilton and Aiken — 
Sayings and doings in the first year of his fame — Jamaica again in view — Plan 
desisted from because of encouragement by Dr. Blacklock to publish at Edin- 
burgh, wherein the Poet sojourns, „ ,.- xxxv — Ixii' 

Chap. V. — The Poet winters in Edinburgh, 1786-7 — By his advent, the condition 
of that city — Literary, Legal, Philosophical, Patrician, and Pedantic — is lighted 
up, as by a meteor — He is in the full tide of his fame there, and for a tvhile ca- 
ressed by the fashionable — What happens to him generally in that new world, 
and his behaviour under the varying and very trying circumstances — The tavern 
life then greatly followed — The Poet tempted beyond all former experience by 
bacchanals of every degree — His conversational talent imiversally admitted, as 
not the least of his talents— The Ladies like to be carried oft' their feet by it, 
while the philosophers hardly keep their.'-- — Edition of 1500 copies by Creech, 
which yields much money to the Poet — Hesolves to visit the classic scenes of his 
own country — Assailed with thick-coming visions of a reflux to bear him back 
to the region of poverty and seclusion, ^ „,,.^~ Ixiv — Ixxi 

Chap. VI — Makes three several pilgrunages in C'aledo;na— Lands from the first 
of these, after an absence of six months, amongst Ws friends in die " Auld Clay 
Biggin"— Finds honour in his own country— Fails in widi many kind friends 
during those pilgrimages, and is familiar witli the great, but never secures one 
effective patron— Anecdotes and Sketches— Lingers in Edinburgh amidst die 
fleshpots, winter 1787-8— Upset in a hackney coach, which produces a bruised 
limb, and mournful musings for.MX weeks— Is enrolled in the Excise— Another 
crisis, in which the Poet finds it necessary to implore even his friend Mrs. Dunlop 
not to desert him— Growls over his publisher, but after settUng with him leaves 
Edinburgh with £500— Steps towards a more regular life, , Ixii— Ixxvl 

Chap. VII Marries — Announcements, (apologetical,) of die event — Remarks — 

Becomes (1708) Farmer at Elliesland, on the Nilh, in a romantic vicinity, six 



vi CONTENTS. 



Page 



miles from Dumfries — The ]\Iuse wakeful as ever, while the Poet maintains a 
varied and extensive literary correspondence with all and sundry — Remarks upon 
the correspondence — Sketch of his person and habits at this period by a brother 
poet, who shews cause against success in farming — The untoward conjunction of 
Gauger to Farmer — The notice of the squirearchy, and the calls of admiring 
visitors, lead too uniformly to tlie ultra convivial life — Leaves Klliesland (1791) 
to be exciseman in the town of Dumfries, Ixxxii-^xe 

Chap- VIII — Is more beset in town than country — His early biographers, (Dr. 
Currie not excepted), have coloured too darkly under that head— It is not correct 
to speak of the Poet as having sunk into a toper, or a solitary drinker, or of his 
revels as other than occasional, or of their having interfered with the punctual 
discharge of his official duties— lie is shown to have been the affectionate and be- 
loved husband, altliough passing follies im])uted ; and the constant and most as- 
siduous instructor of his chil(lren--lmpulscs of the French Revolution— Symp. 
toms of fraternizing— The ;ittention of his official superiors is called to them — 
Practically no blow is inflicted, only the bad name — Interesting details of this pe- 
riod— .(Jives Ills v/holc soul to song making— Preference in that for his native 
'Ijalect, with the other attendant facts, as to that portion of his immortal lays, xci cix 

C'liAV. IX — The Poet's mortal period approaches — His peculiar temperament — 

Syni])toms of premature old age— -These not diminished by narrow circumstances 
---Chagrin from neglect, and dciith of a Daughter— -The Poet misses public pa. 
tronagc : and even Uie fair fruits of his own genius— the appropriation of which 
is debated for the casuists who yielded to liiiii merely the shell— His magnani- 
mity when death is at h;ind ; his i;iter\iews, conversations, and addresses as a 
^ dying niaii— -Dies, 21st July 17!to— Pii';Hr funeral, at which many attend, and 
amongst the rot the t'uture Premier of England, who had steadily refused to ac- 
knowledge the Poet, living— His family muniiiccntly provided for by the public 
—Analysis of ch:;r3Ctcr— His integrity, religious state, and genius — Strictures 
upon hiin and his writings by Scott, Campbell, IJyron, and others, < cx...cxxxiT 

Verses on the death of Burns, by Mr. Roscoe of Liverpool, ■.■.- » cxxxv 

('Wactcr of Burns and his Writings, by Mrs. Riddell of Glenriddell, _-.,___..^ cxxxvii 

Prcfr.cc to the First Edition cf Eurns's Poems, printed in Kilmarnock, -,,-.-„.«,.,_ clxiii 

Dedication to liie Caledonian Hunt, prefixed to the Edinburgh Edition, rr-rr,-n,.,,..... Ux? 



ya 



CONTENTS OF THE POEMS. 



A Bard's Epitaph, 
Address to a Haggis, 

to a Lady, 

to a Louse, 

to a Mouse,-. 

to Colonel de Peyster, - 

to Edinburgh, — '. 

to General Demourier, 

to J. Svme,. 

to Mr. Mitchell, 

to Mr. William Tytler, 

to Robert Graham, Esq 

to the Deil,, 

to the Owl, - 

to the Shade of Thomson, 

to the Scotch Representatives,-,- 

to the Toothache,- 

to the Unco Guid, 
A Dedication to Gavin Hamilton, . 
A Dream (a Birth-day Ode to the King), 
A Grace before Dinner,- 
Answer to a Tax Surveyor, - 
A Prayer in Prospect of Death,- 

in Anguish, — 
A Sketch, 

A Winter Night, 

A Vision,. 



Death and Dr. Hombook,- 

Despondency, an Ode, v~. 

a Hymn, ,~-. 



Page. 
55 



Elegy on Captain Matthew Henderson, 

on William Creech, 

on Peg Nicolson, 

Tam Samson, 

on the Year 1788, — ~™, 



Epistle to a Voung Friend, . 
to Captain Riddel,. 



to Davie, a Brother Poet (1), . 
to Davie, a Brother Poet (2), . 
to Gavin Hamilton, 



4 

15 

41 

18 
75 
72 
.36, 78 
38, 78 
82 
29 
69 

9 

52 
78 



to J. Lapraik, a Scots Poet,- 

to J. Rankin with Poems, 

to Mr. -Macadam, — — ~— ., 
to Terraughty, . 



to the Reverend Mr. M'Math, . 

to W. S. Ochiltree, -, 

Epitaph on a Friend, 



39 

81 

30 

59 

.- 79 

45, 45, 79 

47 

81 

— 81 

79 

46 



on a Noisy Polemic, - 

on a Ruling Elder, 

on Gavin Hamilton, - 
on R. Aitken, . 



on the Poet's Father, . 
on Wee Johnny, . 



Extempore Effusions in the Court of Session, 

on Falsehood,— 

to a Friend, . 
to Mr. Syme, 



Refusal to Dine, - 
when at Carlisle, . 



Halloween, 
Holy Fair, ~ 



Impromptu, a Lady's Birth-day,— «» 
Inscription, Altar of Independence,-. 

Lament of Queen Mary, , 



Lament for .Tames Earl of Glencaim,-. 

for a Scotch Bard gone to the West Indies, 
Lines left at a Friend's House, - -. „. .,..,. 

left at Carron, 



left at Friar's Carse Hermitage, 

left at Taymouth Inn, 

on a Posthumous Child, „. 

on a Wounded Hare, — 

on Bruar Water, , ,,— — 

on Captain Grose, 

on Miss Cruikshanks,- 

on Religion,— 



on Sensibility, to Mrs. Dunlop, - ■ -, - 

on Scaring some Water-fowl in Loch Turit, 

on the Death of J. Macleod, ■ 

on the Fall of Fyers, ■ - 

on the Highlands, —___„,„„„— ——.w™ 

on William Smellie,. 

to a Mountain Daisy, 

to an Offended Friend, . 



to an Old Sweetheart with his Poems, . 

to a Young Lady with Books, - 

to Miss L. with Beattie's Poems, — ,.. 

to Robert Graham, Esq. , -. — .-„ 

to Ruin, . 



to Sir John Whitefoord, - 



fagt- 

52 
40 

37 
68 
4S 

5S 
59 
54 
57 
56 
5K 
78 
7S 
58 
57 
5» 
76 
71 
58 
74 
63 
75 
39 
75 
39 
58 



Man was Made to Mourn, a Dirge, , 

Monody on a Capricious Female and Epitaph,- 

New- Year's Day, a Sketch, 

Ode on a Miserly rh^aroMor 

on my Early Days, , , 

on Pastoral Poetry, 



on the Death of Sir James Hunter Blair, 

to rihprry, iir ■ ■ 



Poor Maillie's Elegy, . 
Scotch Drink,— 



35 
^t 

— 71 

— 49 
~, 61 

— 70 
_ 61 

— 77 

^ 16 



Sonnet on the Death of Mr. Riddel, 

Stanzas on Death, ———,————„ 

Strathallan's Lament, -..,.-.- 



Tam o' Shanter, 



Tam Samson's Elegy and Epitaph, 

The Auld Farmer's New-^ ear's Salutation to his 

Mare Maggie, ,-.— . 

Brigs o' Ayr, - . .„ 

Calf, — ™— — 

Cotter's Saturday Night, ,., ., 

Death and Dying Words of Poor Maillie, ~ 
First Psalm,- 



First Six Verses of 90th Psalm, 

Henpecked Husband, 

Jolly Beggars, - 

Kirk's Alarm,- 



Lament on a Friend's Love Disappointment, 

Newspaper, 

Ordination, .—-.——— — — ~— . 

Twa Dogs, . -..„ 

Twa Herds,.,. ■ 

Whistle, 

Vision, . ■. — 

Vowels, a Tale, 



Winter, a Dirge,- 



Essay on Scottish Poetry (Dr. Cuiiie), . 



3 
72 
37 
69 

52 

25 

28 
10 
14 
3S 
IS 
37 
58 
68 
62 
65 
31 
70 
13 
I 
67 
59 
SO 
81 

55 



84-91 



CONTENTS OF THE SELECT SCOTTISH SONGS. 



Aadrew and his Cutty Gun,. 
Annie Lawrie, 



As I went out in a May Morning, 

Auld Rob Morris, ~ 

Robin Gray, ...» 

Aye waukiii' O, 

A waukrife Minny, ; 

Awa Whigs Awa,' ~-,w™ 



Beds of Sweet Roses, 
Bess the Gaukie.- 



Page. 
— H8 
_ 173 
187 
170 
157 
15(; 
M.> 
184 



Bessy Bell and Mary Grav, 
Bide ye Vet (2 sets), 
Blink o'er the Burn Sweet Heltv 
Blue Bonnets over the Border,^ 
Bonnie Barbara Allan, . 

Dundee, 

Mary Hay,, 

Came ye o'er frae France, . 

Carle an' the Kinj cnme,„-. 

Cauld Kail in Aberdeen,, 

Ca' the Ewes to the Knov/es, ... 

Charlie is my Darling 

Clout the Cau'dron,™ 

Cockpen,. 

Come under my Plaidic,, 

Comin' tliro" the Rye, 

Corn Rigs are Bonnie, 



Crail Town (tram Coram Dago), 
Croralet's Lilt, — . . .... 



Pinna think Bonnie Lassie,, 
Ponald Coupar, ~. 
Pown the Burn Davie,, 
Dumbarton's Drums,, 
Pusty Miller,. 

Ettilck Banks, 

Fair Annie of Lochroyan, . 

Fairly Shot of Her, . 

False Love and hae ye Played Me This 

Farewell to Ayrshire,. 

Fare ye weel liny Auld Wife, 

For Lack o' Gold Slu's left n: 

For the Sake o' Somebody, 

Fye gar rub her o'er wi' btra 

Gala Water,, 

Get up and Bar the Door O, .>-,. 

Go to Berwick Johnie, 

Gude Yill Comes and Cude Vill Goes,. 



Mame never cam' He, 

Haud awa frae mc DoiisM, 

Hap and row tlie Keetie o't, 

Here's a Health to them that's awa,. 
Hey ca" through,, 
Highlan.' Laddie, 
Hooly anc. Fairlie,. 
Hughie Graliu.ii,, 

I had a Horse ard 1 had nae mair. 
I'm o'er Young to Marry Yet, -„~ 

I'll never leave Ye, ^.,, ,, . „ 

I loo'd nae a Laddie but ane, „.,.„ 

Jenny Dang the Weaver, _' „„ 

If ye 11 be my Dawtic and sit on mv'piaid. 
In the G^rl) of Old Gaul,., 



1?0 
ini 
178 
132 
111 
156 
17S 
1.51 
157 

1S2 
157 
129 
146 
152 
105 
145 
158 
1,56- 
12(1 
155 
117 

157 
160 
114 
127 
158 



165 

105 

127 
154 
16.' 
125 

1-^5 
170 
159 
1.55 



155 
186 

162 
IJO 



Jockey said to Jcnny,.,...^^ 
John Ilay's Bonnie Lassie, 

John o' Badenyon, ^ 

Johnny Cope, 

Johnny Faa, 



Johiir/y's Gray Breeks, . 
Jumpiu John, ~.. ....... 



Kate of Aberdeen,, 
Kathrme Ogie, . 



Page. 

- 188 

- X15 

- 144 
„ 145 
™ 136 
^ 106 
_ 159 



Keep the Country Bonnie Lassie, . 
Kelvin Grove, 



Kenmure's on and awa Willie, . 
Killycrankie (the Battle), ..~~. 
Killycrankie O (the Braes), «-,. 
Kind Robin loes me, .v.,.,„~... 



~- 107 
w- 165 
™ 159 
-, 156 
— 185 
w- 147 
^ 160 



Lady Mary Ann,.-, ■.~... — .. 

Lass gin ye Loe me tell me now, 

Las-sie lie near me,, 

Lewis Gordon, 

Little wat ye wha's comin', 

Lochaber lio more, 

Lochnagar, 

Logan Braes, (double set),. 

Logic o' Buehan,. 



Lord Ronald, my Son, 

Lo^v down in the Broom, . 

Macpherson's Rant, ..»».. 

Maggie Lauder, 

Mary's Dream,. 



l)ary Scot, the Flower o' Yarrow, 
Merry hae 1 been Teething a Heckle, 

Mill, Mill, O, 

My Auld Man,. 



M y Dearie, if thou Die, . 
My Jo Janet, . 



M y Love she's but a Lassie yet. 
My Love's in Germanic,. 



My Mither's aye Glowrin o'er me,. 
My Native Caledonia, — ~-..,..~..- 

My only Joe and Dearie O, 

My Wile's a Wanton Wee Thing,. 
My Wife has taen the Gee, ...... — 



Neil Gow's Farewell to Whisky O, , 



O an' ye were Dead Gudeman,^., 
O can ye labour Lea Young Man,, 
Och hey Jolinnv Lad,, 



O dear Minny what sliall I do, . 

O merry may the Maid be, 

O on oc'hrio (the Widow of Gleiico), . 
Old King Coal,. 



Our Guidiiian cam' Hame at E'en, 
O'er the Muir amang the Heather, . 

O'er Bogie wi' my Love, ........ 

O Walv, W»ly up yon Bank,—......, 



Polwarth on the Grecn,.,..^^ 

Poveity parts Gude Company,. 

Ro.'liii C'asilc, 

Roj's Wile, 



Sae Mcrrv' as We hae been, . 

Sandy o'er the Lea, ~« 

.Saw ye Johnny Comin', ~_ 
Saw ye my Father, .,.,..«,., 



173 



146 
165 
164 
119 
16U 
186 
184 
150 
~. 155 

149 

.... 164 



115 
121 

112 
124 
164 
123 

165 

..„ 118 
w. 125 
w. 165 
-.174 
-. 1«2 
™ 167 
w. 155 
~. 166 
_ 166 



170 

167 
139 
161 
160 
185 
119 
168 
161 
150 
163 
128 

185 
168 

105 
170 



lie 

165 

105 

^..^ 175 



CONTENTS, 



feaw ye lue my Peggv, . 

She rose and let me in,. 

t-'teer her up and haud her gavm, 

Strephon and Lydia, 

Symon Brodie, . 

Tak' your Auld Cloak about you,-. 
Tam o' the Balloeli,, 
Tarry Woo,. 

The .\iild Man's Mare's floa4, 

The Auld Wife ayont the Five, -,- 

The Battle o' Sherra-muir, 

The Ranks o' the Tweed, ,„ 

The Beds o' Sweet Ro.ses, 

The Blrks of Invcnnav, - -„.~. 

The Blvthesome Bridal, — ™ ~~~~- 

The Bliithrie o't, , 

The Boatie rows, 

The Bob of Diimblane, ,.~„,„„~™-.,™~. 

The bonnie bnicl;et Lassie, 

The boniiie Lass o' Brajiksonic, 

The bonnie La.ss tliat made the Bed t.> me 

The Braes o' Balleadean, -—«- 

The brisk younj; Lad, „, . ~- 

The Brume o' the Cowdenknowes, ™- 

The Bush ab:)on Traquair, ™ 

The Campbells are eomin', 

The Carle he eain' o'er the Craft, , 

The Coallier's bonnie Lassie, — ™™_~-, — 

The Ewie wi' the Crookit Horn,-,— ~- 

The Flowers of the Forest, ————«,«—« 

The Flowers of Edinburgh, 

The Foray, 

The Gaberlimzie Man,. 
The happy Marriage, -_ 
The Hishtand Qiiueii, , 

Tlie Jolly Beggar, ~ 

Tiio Lanimie, - 

The Landart Laird, 

The Lass of Peatie's Mill, . 

The Lass o' Liviston, 

The Last i ime I cam' o'er the Muir,-. 

Ths Lea-Rig,..-„ 



The Life and Age o' Man.A 
The Maid that tends the Goats, . 

The Maltman, 

The merry Men O, . 

The Miller o' Dee, 

The Minstrel (Donochthead), 



Tlie muekin' o' Geordie's Byre, . 

The Old Man's Song 

The I'oets, what Fools the'rc to Dcave us. 

The Poesie, . 

The Rock and the wee pickle Tow,_ 

The .Soutors o' Selkirk, 

The Tailor fell thro' the Bed, 

The Tuniimspike.. 

The weary Pund o' Tow, 

The wee, wee German Lairdie, 

The Wee Thing,. 

The Wee Wifiltie,. 

I lie White Cockade, 

The Widow, 

'I'he Yellow-hair'd Laddie, 



'! he Young Laird and Edinburgh Katie, 
There's nae Luck about the House,-—— 

This is no Mine Ain House, 

Tibbie Fowler, . 

Tibbie Dunb.ir, 

To Dv.iiitoii Me,-. 

To tlie Ivve wi" Me, (2 sets), 

Todlin IJame, 

Tranent-Muir, - 

'l'uHorh;^:)rum,. 

' I'was within a Mile o' Edinburgh Town, . 

Tv/ecdsido {i sets),- 

llp and Warn a' Willie, 
Up iu the Mornin' early. 



Wandering Willie, 

Wa\ikui' o' the Fauld, 

We're a' Nid Noddin, 

Were nae my Heart Light I wad Die, 

Willie was a Wanton \Vag, . 
Woo'd and M;uTied and a', 



It 

Page. 
lOO 
IIS 

m 

IH 

17a 
151 
125 
135 
174 
111 
^ 13* 
138 
184 
107 
159 
187 
180 
171 
)8l 
181 
181 
18C 

lis 

142 

17* 
148 
13« 

- 175 
]¥» 

in 

114 

174 
109 




182 
ISO 
167 
124 
163 
140 



CONTENTS OF BURNS'S SONGS. 





Page. 


Aaieu, a Heart-warm fond Adieu, ,,.,-,—.,.- 


183 


Ae fond Kiss and then we Sever, 


188 


Afton Water, 


IKS 




189 


A Highland L,;d mv Love was born,~- 


189 


Amang the Trees where humming Bees, 


189 


A Man's a Man fr a' that, 


l;)0 


Anna, 


100 






A red red Rose. ~— „ 


191 


A Rose Hud bv niy early Walk, — .„ 


191 


A Southland Jennie, -„ 


™-^ 1!)I 


Auld Lan" Svne,— .^— — — . ., -, ., -, ., . . ,, . 


191 


Auld Rob Morris, ,.. <- 


191' 



Bessy and her Spinnin^-Whcel, .., .^-.— . ]£)•-' 

Behold the hour the Boat arrives, — „ 193 

Beware of Bonnie .Vnn, ., -,.-. 192 

Beyond thee. Dearie, lij.i 

BIythe hae I been on von Hill,-—™—™ 1!).) 

Blythe was She, '. 1 95 

Bonnie Bell, 19'1 

Wee Thing, VH 

Druce at Bannoekburn, 19.5 

Caledonia— (their Groves o" Sweet Myrtle), — 195 

Can'st thou leave me thus, Katy, 1—^ 195 

Reply, 106 

Ca' the Ewes, — . .. — 195 



Chloris,. 

Clarinda,-. 

Come let me take Thee to my Breast, - 

Contenicil wi' Little, --. 

L'ountry Lassie, — 

Jraigieoum-v.'ood,-. 

Dainty Davie,-,. 
Dcluileil Sw.-jin, 
Does h:iM;;hty (!aul,- 
Dovjn the Biiru Uavie, , 
Duncan Gray, 

n^van Banks, 



Fair Eliza,-,— ~-~-.«—— 

Fairest Maid on De\on Hanks 

Fate gave the Word, 

I'cir tlie Sake o' Somebody, ,„ 

Fotlorn my Love, 

From thee Eliza,. 

Ga!a-\Va!or,- 
Gloomy Decembc-, . 



ce:i grow the Ra^hes O, — 
Guiltv.ifc count the Lawin',-. 



Had I a Cave on some Wild distant Shore, 

Hand.some Nell, . 

Her flowing Locks, 

Here's a health to Ane 1 loe dear, _. 



Pag*. 
197 
197 
197 

197 
19S 
193 

198 
198 
199 
199 
199 

199 

90O 
200 
200 
'iOO 
201 
201 

201 
201 

„ 2'.)2 
- 202 



to Them that'* awa, . 



203 
202 
203 
504 
204 



CONTENTS. 



Here"* » Bottle and an Honett Friend, , 

Highland Harry, — 

Highland Mary, 



Page. 

„ 204 
„ 203 
„ 203 
^ 204 
^ 204 

205 

„ 206 

205 

2115 

. 205 
. 206 

206 

<~ 207 
206 



Raving Winds around her blowinf;,«. « <.«.< 



How Cruel are the ParenU, — 

How lang and dreary Is the Night, — 

I am a Son of Mars, ~~ ~ 

Jamie come try me, — ; 

I dream'd I lay where Flowers were springing,. 

rU aye ca' in by yon Town. — _~~ 

I'm o'er Voung to Marry yet. 
It is nae Jean tny bonnie Face, — 
Jockey's U'en the Parting Kiss, 

John Anderson my jo, 

John Barleycorn, ■ - 

Last May a braw Wooer cam' down the Lang Glen, 208 

Lassie wi' the Lint-white Locks,-^ -~— 208 

Lay thy Loof in mine Lass,_~ — -~ -"» 

Let not a Woman e'er complam, ™~- ^"J 

Logan Braes, ~— ~- ^UJ 

Lo^g, long the Night 209 

Lord Gregory, _ —— _~~~~ ^y» 

Lord Daer, ~-_~— ^lu 

210 

210 

211 

211 

211 

_~ 212 
-^ 212 

212 

212 

213 

213 

_^ 215 

214 

211 



Saw ye ought o' Captain Grose, . 

Scroggum,- 

She's Fair and She's Fause, ~— - 
She says she Loes me best of a'. 
Sic a Wife as Willie had,. 



Macpherson's Farewell,- 
Mana's Dwelling, 



Steer her up and haud her gaun, 

Sweet fa's the Eve on Craigiebum-wood, 

Tarn Glen, 

The Auld Man, „__~_™~~_~~— ~~ 

The Banks o' Castle Gordon, 

o' Cree, — 

o' Devon,~~- 

o' Doon, — „-. 

o' Nith,- 

The Bard's Song 



Mark yonder Pomp of costly Fashion, . 

Mary Morison, ~ „„™ 

Meg o' the Mill. 



The Battle o' Sherra-Muir, 

The Big-bellied Bottle, 

The Birks o' Aberfeldie, 

The Blue-eyed Lassie, 

The bonnie Wee Thing,™- 

The Braes o' Ballochmyle, 

The Carle o' Kellvburn.Braes, . 

The Chevalier's Lament, 

The Day Returns, . 

The Death Song, 



My Bonnie Mary, 

My Heart's in the Highlands, ■ 

My Lady's Gown there's Gairs upon't, - 

My Nannie's awa,~- '••• "" ■•■ 

My Nannie O, — •' ' 

My Peggy's Face my Peggy's Form, ~ 
My Spouse Nancy, 



My Wife's a winsome Wee Thing, 
Musing on the Roaring Ocean, — 



Naebody, 
Nancy, — 



Now Banks and Braes are clad in Green, — 
Now Spring has clad the Grove in Green, — 
Now westliu Winds and slaughtering Guns, 

O' a' the alrts the Wind can blaw,- 
O ay my Wife she dang me, 
O bonnie is yon Rosy Brier,- 



O for Ane and Twentie Tarn, — • 

O gin my Love were yon Red Rose, 

O leave Novclles ye Mauchlin Belles, ~ 

O let me in this ae Night, — -~~ 

O Love will venture in, _~ 

O May, thy Mom, 



On a Bank of Flowers, — 

On Cessnock Bjink, 

On the Seas and far away, 

Open the Door to me O, 

O Philly happy be that day, 

O stay sweet warbling Woodlark, 
O wat ye Wha's in yon Town, — 

O were I on Parn.issus Hill, 

O wert Thou in the Cauld Blast,~ 

O wha is She that Loes me, 

Out over the Forth,. ■■•■ 



Pecey Alison, 

Phillis the Fair, __- ~-~ 

Powers Celestial whose protection, 
Puirtith Cauld, ~ 



The Deil's awa wi' the Exciseman,. 
The Election, 



The Gallant Weaver, 
The Gardener, 



214 

214 

. 215 

214 

. 215 

• 

215 

216 

216 

216 

217 

217 

217 

218 

, 218 

219 

, 218 

. 219 

. 219 

. 220 

220 

'. 220 

£21 

" 216 

. 216 

. 216 



The Gloomy Night is g.itherin' fast, . 

The Heather was bloomin", . 

The Highland Lassie O, . 

The Lad that's far awa, . 

The Lass o' Ballochmyle. 

The Lass that made the Bed to me,- 

The Lazy Mist,. 

The Lea-Rig, ~ 

The Lovely Laiis o' Inverness, 

The Lover's Salutation, ~ 

The Riggs o' Barley, 

The Soldier's Return, ~. 

The stown Glance o' Kindness,. 
The Toast, 



rage. 

-.M3 



The Tocher for Me, 

The Woodlark, —. ~™ 

The Young Highland Rover, ~ ~. 

There'll never be Peace till Jamie comes hame, 

There's a Youth in this City, ~- .-• 

There's News Lasses 



There was once a Day, 

This is no mine ain Lassie, — 
Thou has left me ever Jamie, 
Tibbie I hae seen the Day, — 
To Mary in Heaven, . 



True-hearted was He, -• 

Wae is my Heart and the Tears in my Ee, . 
Wandering Willie,- 



. 222 

. 222 

222 



What can a Young Lassie do wi' an Auld Man, _ 

Wha is that at my Bower Door, 

When Guildford 6ood, ,„ 

Where are the Joys I hae met in the Morning, _ 
Whistle and I'll come to ye my Lad, . 

Willie brew'd a Petk o' Maut, 

Will Ye go to the Indies my Mary,- 
Wilt thou be my Dearie, — 



— M5 

_ Jt3 

-, ns 

_ 223 
.,- 224 
_ 224 
-. «4 

— its 

_ 225 

_ 225 
_ 226 

— 22S 

— 225 
_ 236 
„ S26 
_ 226 

_ in 

„ 227 
_, 228 
„ 2SS 

— 228 

— 828 
~. 229 
_ 829 
„ 230 
„ 230 

830 

_ 231 

231 

__ 232 

232 

. 238 

23S 

.235 

233 

. 23» 

234 

234 

_ 235 

_ 235 

_ 255 

- 237 

- 236 

- 238 
_ 237 
-237 

236 
237 
237 
238 
2.18 
239 
240 
239 
•240 

240 
240 
240 
241 
24 L 
242 
242 
242 
243 
242 



Raotin' Roarin' WilliCi <<< " 



Yon Wild Mossy Mountains, 

Young Jockey was the blythest Lad, 
Voung Peggy, " '■—■ 



. 245 
. 245 

. 243 



CONTENTS OF THE CORRESPONDENCE. 



1783. 1784. 



Page. 



Love Letters, at 20, in good English, but unavail- 
ing, ~ .247-9 

To Mr. Murdoch— state of the Poet and his Opi- 
nions, , „ , , 2-19 

Extracts from the Scrap-boolc, .w, ..-,.™. 250-2 

1786. 

To Mr. John Richmond, Edinburph— first pub- 
lishing. . . .-,„„.,..,„„..,„„„.„„„ 2.')2 

To Mr. Maewhinnie, Ayr— same topic, i!52 

To Mr. James Smith, 'Mauchline— route for Ja- 
maica, ™~~ — <...„„,.™.„..,..„^„„„„„„ „ 253 

To Mr. David Brice — same — about to become 
Poet in print — the last foolish action he is to 
commit, ™~~,—„..„.,.„^.^ ..^^^ 255 

To Mr. Aitlten, Ayr — .Authorship— Excist — a fu- 

To Mrs. Dunlop— first Letter— her order for Co- 
pies— his early devotion to her anoestor, .Sir W. 

To Mrs. Stewart of Stair — introductory — hurry — 
going abroad— sends Soi-gs, ,„J „ 'Jjj 

From Dr. Blacklock. to the Rev. Mr. G. Laurie — 
with just estimate of the Poet's merits — which 
puts an end to the West India scheme, and brings 
him to Edinburgh, „.~„ 255 

From Sir John Whitefoord — compliment.iry,~ 256 

From the Rev. Mr. G. Laurie — pressing interview 
with Dr. Blacklock — good advice, 25(5 

To Gavin Hamilton, Mauchline — from Edinburfih 
^the Poet eminent as Thomas a Kempis or 
John Banyan— favours of the Edinburgh public, 256 

To Dr. Mackenzie, MauehUne — with the Lmes on 

1787. 
To Mr. John Ballantine, Ayr — occurrences at 

To Mr. William Chalmers, Ayr — the same, and 
humourously apologetical, 257 

To Mr. John Ballantine — Farming projects and 
farther incidents at Edinburgh, - . 25S 

To the Earl of Eglinton— a thankful Letter, 258 

To Mrs. Dunlop— treats of Dr. Moore and his 
Writings — critical remarks on his own — and 
upon himself at the height of popular favour,— 259 

To Dr. Moore — introductory— the Poet's views of 
himself, ■ ,., , ■ .,,. . ,. . , . 259 

From Dr. Moore— thinks the Poet not of the ir- 
rilabite genus — admires his love of Country and 
independent spirit, not less than his Poetical 
Beauties— sends Miss Williams Sonnet on the 
Mountain Daisy, 260 

To Dr. Moore^-general character of Miss Williams' 
Poems, , 260 

To Mr. John Ballantine — printing at Edinburgh, 
and getting his phiz done, 261 

Prom Dr. Moore — with his View of Society— and 
other Works,-—— „„ 261 

To the Earl of Glencairn— with Lines for his Pic- 
ture, _-„w— _~— . ,„, 261 

To the E^rl of Buchan— as to Pilgrimages in Cale- 



POff.. 

Pi'oceedings as to the Tombstone of Fcrgusson, 202-3 
To Mr. James Candlish, Glasgow — the Poet clings 
to Revealed Religion, leaving Spinosa — but still 

the Old .Man with his deads, 264 

To the same — first notice of Johnson's Musical 

To Mrs. Dunlop, from Edinburgh — the Bard — his 

situation and views, „-,__„.„.»„ — 261 

To the same, -. -, 265 

To Dr. Moore — leaving Edinburgh for his first 

To Mrs. Dunlop — sore under her literary triti- 

To tlie R.OV. Dr. Hugh Blair— leave taking. 265 

Trom Dr. Bl.iir — who notices his own claims for 
first introducing Ossian's Poems to the world — • 
gives the Poet, at parting, a certificate of cha- 
raour, with much good advice, both wordly and 

To Mr. William Creech — with the Elegy during 
the first Pilgriui.iijc, , , 266 

From D.-. Moore— ^sparing use herc.ifier of the 
Piova-.cial Dialect rcc-ommcn. led— more valu,-.- 
b!o hints also given, .-„> 267 

To ?ilr. Will ;nn Ki.ol! — !he Pock's Itinerary in 

From ?vli. John Ihitchesoii, J.iiiiaica — Poems 
exoclknt — but bc'.tcr in the English style — Scot- 
tish now becoming obsolete — ihssuades from the 
West In.lics — " llyjre is no cnoniragemcnt for a 
man of lenniing and genius tiicre," _„~~~-. 268 

ToMr. \V. Ni.-cll — on arriving at liome — morali- 
zes over the S'.-cuc.s and Companions of his re- 
cent elevation — gloomily as to the future, 268 

To G;ivin Haniilion — occurrences of the second 
Pilrcriinage .-. 269 

To Mr. Walker, liiair-in-Atholo — the same — the 
Duke'i lairiily,...- , S70 

To Mr. Gili)crt i'.uns— further adventures, -~ 270 

From Mr.np.iinsay ol() liteity.c — with Inscriptions 
— Tale of Owen Cameron— hnits for a Poetical 
f.'omposition on the grand sc.de and other t.TSte- 
ful and int::rc^t!n'5 maiter. 271-2 

From Mr. Waltitv, \:liole-Huiise — (larticulars of 
the Poet's visit ih^it — female contrivances to 

From Mr. A. M. an admiring Friend returned 
from abroad — with tnbut.iry Verses, £73 

From Mr. Ramsay to Iho Re-. William Young — 
introductory of the iP.;et, „ 274 

From the same to Dr. i.iacklock — with thanks for 
the Poet's .-.cquaiiitance a:'..! Songs— Anecdotes, 274 

From Mr. Murdoch — a kind Letter from an old 
Tutor, rejoicing in the fruits of the genius he 
had helped to euUiv;-te, — 275 

From Mr. R. , from Gordon-Castle — incidents 

of the Poet's visit there, 27S 

Froin the Rev. John .skinner — prefers the Natural 
ti) the Classical Poet — his own Poesy— contri- 
butes to the Song-making cnterprize, 276 

From .Mrs. Ross of Kilraivach — Gaelic airs — the 
Poet's Northern Tour, iJl 

To Mr. D.ilrympleof Or.mgcfield- Rhymes, 278 

Fragment — Letters to Miss Chalmers, 278-81 

To Miss M ail Essay on the complimentary 

style, -~ : : — 2Sl 

To Mr. Robert Ainslie — friendship S8l 

To Mr. John Ballantine — with Song, Ve Banks 
and Braes o' Bunnie i)oon, > „ »w >»■»»<» UX 



kii 



CONTENTS. 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 

Page. 
To Pr. Moore, from the Poet— Sketch of his 

From Mr. Gilbert Burns, a niniiing Commentarv 

on tlie forcgoinp, . 28G-90 

From Mr. Miiriloeh, as to tlio Poel's early Tui- 

Frnm Professor Dugnlcl Siewart — his ."ikeiuhes of 

From Mr. Gilbert Duriis, giving history of ori;;!ii 
of the pri.ieiiwl I'ocms, — 1, SD5-7 

From the same. In eontitiii.ition — ami Essay on 
E<lueation of lower Cl.isses, i'gV-oO'i 

Pcath and Character of Gilbert Etirns, .»i)2 

The Poet's tjerap-Uook, (farther cxtraet5),~ ~.>l'2-5 



LETTERS, 173r;, 
To Mrs. DKn!op, from Edinburgh— ."jfcocd visit- 
To the s,".mc — repellinj» in!;!nu.''.tion as to irreli- 

To a Lady — upon the use of sarea':r!i imputed to 

him agaiiut her, ,w—~~~.-~- ~~ 3G4 

To Mr. Robert CIcnhorn— oris?i;i o:' ll-.e Ciiova- 

From tlie same, in answer — a:iJ v.iih Farming 

To Mr. James Smith, Avoiificlcl — marriage prc- 

To Mrs. Dinilo!) — Farming — reasons for .-ir.d in- 
.structions in the Kxcise — tart expressions, — ,™ 305 

From the Hev. .lohn Skinner, with " Channing 
Nancy," by a liuehan Ploiiglnnnn, and other 
Song>i — his own I„"tin poetry, „ 306 

To Professor Dugald Stewart— wishes at liis coi"S 
to the Continent, ^ „~.,~, -—^ 506 

To Mrs. Diinlcp — Drvden's Virgil— likes tho 
Gcorgies — disaupointed in the jEneid, often an 
imitation of I'lomcv — Dryden, Pope's niaster, 
in genius .and h.armony of'lanfjnage, 507 

To Mr. Robert Aiiislie— a dull Letter may be a 

To Mrs. Dunloj) — inequality of enni'.itions, .'507 

To the same— (irst from Eli'island— Iiis marriage, 308 
To Mr. Peter Hill, with a Ewe-mi'k Cheese— a 

slice of it good for indigestion of r.ll kinds, 303 

To Mr. Robert Ainsli" — friendship — the Poet's 

suspicious temperament— his purpose to leave 

the light trooDs of Fancy for i ho squadrons of 

heavy-armed Thousht— Marri.i^ir, J, 5CD 

To Mr. Morrison, Wright, Mauohline— tiie Poet's 

new house, , „„ _, „„ 3r9 

To Mr. Robert Ainslie— a serioi;s Letter, 510 

To Mr. George Loekhavt, C!as.i;ow — admiration 

of certain Female beautic.J,—,,^. -w— 311 

To Mrs. Dunlorv— a luck-peimy — Friar's Carso 

Hermitage and other Line", ~ ^~,~~.— 511 

To the same— his answers t-) her, not Echct-s — 

Alarriage Anecdotes — account of liis Wife — Lct- 

To tlie same— gossip of a Dinner-party— Life and 

Age of Man— religious impressions, 31. 

To Robert Graham, Esq. wuh iirst poetical Ad- 

To Mr. Bcugo, Engr.iver — estimate of the Poet's 
new neighbours — matters poetical, 314 

To Miss Chalmers— complimentary to her — and 
explanatory of his marri-ige — present state and 
prospects — Songs, ,..., .315 

To Mrs. Dunlop — twins — criticisms — verses, 516 

To Mr. Peter Hill — cpinions of the Poetry of 

To Mrs. Dunlop— the Major's present, 517 

To — ajiologetical for the bloody and tyrannical 

House of Stewart, ...■■.. ,. „ 518 

To Mr. James Johnson, Engraver, Edinburgli — 

with Songs and good advice for his Musical Mu- 

To Dr. Blacklock — with Poetic.-d Pieces and Songs 
— his MaiTiage and other movements, 319 

To Mrs. Dunlop— consolatory — the Poet's csti- 
m.ite of worldly concerns, as against the func- 
tions of the immorud smd — Auld Lang Syne — 
&nd other Songs, 520 

'^0 a youDg Lady, encloting a Ballad upon hcr,~ 52(1 



1789 

Pagf 

To Sir John Wliitefoord— thanks for his voluntary 
defcnec of the Poet, ■ - . 321 

From Mr. Gilbert Burns — New. Year's wishes, — 321 

To Mf;. Dunlop — thesame — approves of set times 
of Devotion — glowing sentiments of a Life be- 
yond the Grave, ~~^ ~~ .^. ^ 321 

From (he Rev. P. C':irfrae — of Mylne and his 

To Dr. Moore — pf:ctical purposes — workllv s'ate 

of the Poi t and his Frienris, , ■' 322 

'Jo Mr. Robert Ainslie — advice aiul encourage. 

To Cishon Geddcs — " What am 1 ?— AVliere I am ? 

— and for what am I destined ?" 324 

To Mrs. Dunlop — contrast of higi'. and low — 

Myli'c's Poems,—-™ ,-~™ 324 

Froia William Burns, the Poet's Brother — his out- 

To tho Rev. P. Carfiae — Xlylne's Poems, ._,. 526 

lo Dr. Moore— the Eard's sufierings from the 

Death and Funeral of a sordid Female, _™,~ 326 
7'o Va: Peter Ui!I— culo;;y orfru;;a!ity— order for 

To i^.irs. 'DiiDlop— SkelJi of Fox, 5VS 

To Mr. CiiJMiinjihau; — iS'iisions of Friendship, — 328 

From Ur. Grefr^irv — iroi) br.und criticism ~~ 32S 

To ?.lr. Jp.iiic; H.imilton, Gl.is'tow — contolatic;!), 329 

To Mr. William Creccli— .Toothache, 3^9 

To Mr. M'Aulcy of Dumijarlon— clcsciplive of 

the Poet's feclinps and condition, ~ ~ .'530 

To Mr. Uohert Ainslie— tliC same tojiio, ,— 5 

From Dr. Moore — advice — to preserve and polish 

his lays, .n.ud to .ibaiiUon tho Scottish stanza and 

To .Mrs. Dunlop — low spirits — religious feelings,— 331 
Fro".n Miss J. Littler — v.ith a poetical tributc,.-~~, 5o- 
Frcm Mr. Cunningisara — reminiscences cf Fcrgus- 
so:i,~~~-~— ~v— ,. ..—...... ,,„^.>..— ,„— ..--.,~.. 3S3 

To MV. (?unninginm, in answer, ™ „~_ 533 

To Mr. Dunlop — ciomcstic m;ittors — Poetical Tri- 
bute from Miss L a Fi:luvc .State— /^i>!nei;, 534 

From Dr. Blacklock — a friendly JLetter in Rhyme, 534 

To Dr. BhicklocU — a suitable answer,-....- 33S 

To Capt;iin Riddel— the night of the Whistle, — 535 

To the same — the Scrnp-book, -...- ..-. 33.> 

To Mr. Robert Ainslie — the v.ord " Exciseman," 535 
To Robert Graham, Esq..-.Captai;i Grose and lo- 

To Mrs. Dunlop — "under the miseiies of a diseas. 
cd nervous system," ~. • — — -™— ~ 337 

To Sir John Sinclair — the Library of Dunscore,™ 53S 
Fmra C.iptain Uiildcl U> Sir Joiin— on tame siib. 

— 338 



1730. 

To Gilbert Rums— the Players— Verses for them, 339 
From William Burns — at 5.'ewvastle— wants inlor- 

matiun and fr.ifcrnal instructions, ,— — . 339 

To Mrs. Dunlop — the Poet Falconer — Ballads, — S'JO 

From Mr. Cunningham— friendly notices, 341 

From Mr. Peter Hill — " a poor raneally (Jauger." 

— Bor()U;.ih Reform— Books — Note, with secrets 

To Mr. VvillianiKicoll — Isst illness and death of 
Peg Nicolson— m;'.iter3 thc.itrical — etcle»iastical 
squabbling — ^Exciseman's duty, —. — — y.-, 342 

To Mr. Cunningham^^n Leflcr wrilinq — exist- 
ence — and I lie course of the Poci's reading — 
Deism — Scc)ilie;sin, — ,. — ww— — ~— .»„™— 343 

To Mr. Peter Hil!—a large order— existence, ^ 34.1 

From William Inuiis, at Lcndun— his advenlures 
—hears the C'a//' preach at Co<ent Ganlen Cha- 

To Mrs. Dunlop — advantages of llie Union— Lord 
Chestertield— Mirror — Lounger— M.an of Feel- 

From Mr- Cunningham — friendly notices,——.,—-. 3i5 
To Or. Moore— Letter writing — Zeluco— Miss 

Williams,-. ., — „-__-^ 546 

To Mr. r.inrdoth — icii v.ing iricnaly intercourse, ^A6 
From Mr Murdoch— Death of William Burns, — 347 
To Mr. Cuiaiingham — Independence— Smollett's 



CONTENTS. kill 



n . P<tge. 

From Dr. Blacklock— a LDtter In Rhyme— Dr. 
Anderson and the Bee, ~~~«w.-— .^™™-,~,„-. 348 

From Mr. Cunningh.im— a Song for each of tlie 
four Seasons siigccstcd, ,.»,.„,.- .~ ,'5-J9 

To Mrs. Dunlop — Birth of a Posthumous Child- 
Ode thereon, ~„™„~- _ SJO 

To Crawford Tait; Esq. — recommending a young 

To. •— Partizanship, .,■■... ^.■.. 350 



1791. 

To Mr. Cunnincham — Elegy on Miss Burnet, 550 

To Mr. Peter Hill— Essay on Poverty, 351 

From A. F. Tytler, Esq. — Tarn o' Shanter,.~™-~, oil 
To Mr. Tvtler — in answer, ~~~~~~~„_-_»~~.. 552 
To Mrs. bunlo(i — broken arm — Elegy on Miss 

Burnet — a remembrance, i™~»— „. ."SS 

To Lady Mary Constable — a Snuff-box, ~~-,^ 553 

To Mrs. Graham of Fintry — Ballad on Qutea 

Mary — the Poet's pratitude, ~~ — —--^ 3r>3 

From the Rev. Principal Baird — Michp.el Bruo?,_ 353 
To Principal Baird— offering every aid tor pub- 

lishiui; Bruce's Works, ., — .,. 354 

To the Rev. Archibald Allison — his Essays on 

To Dr. Moore — Sonijs and Ealla^ls — Zcleuco — iiri. 

To Mr. Cunnin;^ham — Song, " There'll never be 
peace till Jarriie i;omc hain:'," ,,,, ^,. S5G 

To Mr. Dalwll, Factor to Lord Glencairn— the 
Poei's grief for his Lordshij) — iiis wish to attend 

From Dr. Moore — criticises Tarn o' Shanter, and 
other pieces — solicits the Poet's remarks on iie- 
leueo — advises him to bo more chary of giving 
Copies— and to use the inodcrn English, >»„^ 3.>G 

To Mrs. Dunlop— a domestic occurrence — excUi- 
sive advantafft'S of hum'jlc life, „-„,-„. „. 357 

To Mr. Cunnincham — in beh.-.lf cf a perrecutcd 
Schoolmaster, ,. . ,.„ 355 

From the Earl of Biichan— srowninj of ThonKon's 
Bust at Ednam, , >.>...„...„ ^^.^..^ 5.5S 

To the same — in answer,^,^w~. „„^™.,„„ 553 

To Mr. Thomas Sloan, Manchester — disappoint, 
ment — perscvci'ance recommended — The" Poct'« 

From the Earl of Buchan — suggests Harvest-home 
for a theme to the Muse, _^-«.^~..^_™™..w™™ 359 

To Lady E. Cunningham — condolence on the 
death of her Brother, Lord Glencair:i,~~-„„.. 3S0 

To Mr. Robert Ainslie — a Mind disoassd, — .,-,^v»- .j60 

From Sir John Whitcfoord— Lament for Lord 

From A. F. Tytler, Esq.— the Whisii;— llieTa- 

To Miss Davies — sentimental — wiih some hints as 

to a Radical Reform, ., .^.,..„..,„^^,, 5G.' 

To Mi-s. Dunlop— with the Death-Song— High- 

To Captain Grose— lauds Professor Dugald Stew. 

To the same — Witch Stories of KirU-Allowav, . 5E3 

To Mrs. Dunlop — animadversions of the Board — 

malicious insinuations— a cup of kindness, ."--"1 

To Mr. W. Smellic— introductory of .Mrs. Riildel, SG-l 
To Mr. W. NicoU— admiration of, and gratitude 

for sage advice, ^.,.^...,.^., .,,,,,, . ,, 3C,5 

To Mr. Cunningham — the Poet's Arms, 3ii5 

To Mr. Clarke- invit;ition to come to tlie Country, oGti 
To Mrs. Dunlop — a Pbtonic attiiohnicnt and a 

Ball.td — Religion indispcnsible to make Man 

better and happier, — ,-., 3C7 

To Mr. CunninglKim— nocturnal ravines 5 i? 

To Mrs. Iiunlop—diftercnce in Farming for one's 

self and F.anning for another, „. ."6S 

To the same— a Family ijrfliction— condolence, — 569 
To the same — shortness and uncertamty of Life— 

• Rights of Woman. - ■■ - , ,, --....,,. 5S3 
To Robert Graham, Esq.— jusiitics himself against 

the charge of disaftvcLion to the British Const!. I 

To Mrs. Dunlop— the Poet's utll'ro^ed lu'jits— .■il- | 



PagU 

luslotis to her suggcstloas tot hli oflldat promo. 

To Mis5 B. of York — moralizes over the chance. 

medleys of human intercourse, ,,.., 371 

To Patrick MiUer, Esq. of Dalswinton- an honest 

To John Francis Erskine of Mar, Esq. — the Poetfs 
independence of sentiment, and particularly his 
opinions .is to Reform eloquently justified, _ 372-3 

To Mr. Robert Ainslie — Spunkie — Schoolcraft 
caught by contact, , ■ ■■ 373-4 

To Miss K delicate flattery to a Beauty, ~™ 374 

To Lady Glencairn -graticude to her Family — 
from an independent Exciseman, 374-5 

To Miss Chalmers— a curious analysis which shewi 
" a Wight nearly as miserable as a Poet," .,.,. 375 

To John M'Murdo, Esq.— out of debt, . ,„,,„ ^^ 575^ 

LETTERS, 179i, 1795, 1796. 

To the Earl of Buchan— with " Bruce's Address," 376 

To Mrs. Riddel— Dumfries Theatricals,- 376 

To a Lady — the same, „.. -■■-.-■ 376 

To Mr. . the Poet's Dreams of Excise promo- 
tion and literary leisure, , 378-7 

To Mt«. Riddel— Theatricals ,',nd lobster-coated 

puppies, < 377 

To tha same — ginhorse routine of Excise business, ,"577 

To the same— eifects of a cool rpfppHop, .,.,,. 377 

To the same — :-. sijice of caprice, 378 

■I'o the same — firm yptivtnpjlinf'nf^, 578 

To John Syme, Esa. — praises of I\!r. A. — Song on 

Mrs. Oswald. ~~>I....,„.,„ .,„.„„„.,„„.„.. 57s 

To Miss in defence of his reputation — re- 
claims his f.i3.~~~~~~~ -, ,.., ■ ..., 37S-9 

To Mr CunnitifT^iana— a Mind Diseased- Religion 

necRssary to Man, ^..^.^.^.^^.^^ ^ 379 

To a Laiiy— iVnm the Shades, ., .,,,,. 380 

"Vo tiie j:iii of Gleaaum— the Poet's gratitude to 

his late Evoi'ier, „.^. ~.-v„ 380 

To Dr. Anderson—his Work, the Lives of the 

To Mrs. Riddel— solitary confinement goo<l to re- 
tlaiia Sinners— Odo fcr Eirth-day of Washing- 

Tv> >.lr. James Johnson — Songs and projects for 
the Museum, ,..,,.„.,,... ,, Jgl 

To >!r. Miller of D.-iIswinton— declines to be a re- 
(.'•ilar conlribulor to the Poet's Corner of the 
Mi-rniii? Chronic!?, — ,^ „,. „..„_ 381 

To Mr. (;;i.vin Hamilton— the Poet recommends a 
particular regimen to him,~~>~„ . — .'82 

To .\Ir. Samuel Clarke — penitence after excess, ^ 382 

To Mr. Alex.ander Findlater— Supervisor— " So 
nnic!) far schemes," ,^ 383 

To the E.lilorsof t:ic Morning Chronicle— its in- 

li^'".Oi\'!;'i;CC, ^rrjirj r n.- r r n i .1 . r.i . . . . j j r -- -| ■ - - 5S3 

To Mr. \V. I.>'unb3r— New- Year wishes, 383 

To Miss Fontcnelle — with a Prologue for her be- 

1 o Mrs. Dunlop— cares of the Married Life — Dum- 
fries Theatricals — Cowpcr's Task — the Pact's 
Scrap-book, ^ 384-5 

To Mr. Heron of Heron— Political Ballads — 
Dreams of Excise promotion, ...... 335 

To the Right Hon. W. Pitt— in behalf of the 
Scots Distillers, -„.,., 386 

To the Magistrates of Dumfiies — Free School E- 
ducation, ., .„ 337 

To Mrs. Dunlop in London — Mr. Thomson's 
Work— ;ieting Supervisor— New Year wishes — 
Dr. Moore, „„_ 387-8 

To Mrs. Riddel— Anacharsis— the Muses still pre. 
sent, 38S 

To Mrs. Dunlop— in affliction, 388 

To Mrs. Riddel— on Birth-day loyalty, 388 

To Mr. James Johnson — the Museum — a consum- 
ing illness hanijs over the Poet,- ,-.„ 389 

To Mr. Cunnin/;ham— from tlie Brow, .Sea-bath- 
ing Quarters — sad picture, , 589 

To Mrs. Burns — from the Urow— strengthened— 
but total decay of appptitn, ■ ... stB 

To Mx3. Dunlopi— » Usi farewell, -.1- ,,_, 339 



%w 



CONTENTS OF THE POET'S CORRESPONDENCE 
WITH MR. GEORGE THOMSON. 



Page. 
Prom Mr. Tnomson— soUcitinf; the Poet's aid to 

the Select Melodies. 391 

The Poet'* answer — frankly embarking in the 

Fiom Mr. Thomson — views of conducting the 
Work — and with 1 1 Songs for Nevi Verses, 592 

Prom the Poet— with the " l,ca Rig"—" My Nan- 
nie O" — " Will ye go to the Indies my Mary," 593 

Prom the Poet — with " My Wife's a wanton wee 
thing" — " O saw ye bonnie Lesley," 393 

From the Poet— with " Ye Banks and Braes ;ind 
Streams around the Castle o" Montgomery," 50i 

Prom Mr. Thomson — criticisms and corrections,™ o9i 

From the Poet — admits some corrections, " but 
cannot alter bnnnie Lesley" — additional Verse 
for the " Lea Rig," 395 

From the Poet- with " Auld Rob Morris" and 
" Duncan Gray," 595 

From the Poet— with " Poortith Caiild" and 
•• Galla Water,", 395 

From Mr. Thomson— laudatory for favours re- 
ceived—details the plan of his Work— P. S. from 
the Honourable A. Erskine — a brother Poet 
and contributor, 39G 

From the Poet — ajiproves of the details — offers 
matter anecdotic— the Song " Lord Gregory" — 
English and Scots scis of it, 396-7 

From the Poet— with " Wandering Willie," ~~— 397 

From the Poet—" Open the Door to me 0,"„- ."97 

From the Poet — " True-hearted was he," _~ 59? 

From Mr. i homson — with complete list of Songs, 
and farther details of the Work, 397-8 

From the Poet — with " The .Soldier's return"— 
" Meg o' the Mill," 398 

From the Poet — Song making his hobby— offers 
Taluabic hints for enriching and improving the 
Work,~, 398-9 

From Mr. Thomson — in answer, . oO'J 

Prom the Poet— farther hints and critical remarks 

, — sends Song on a celebrated Toast to suit 
Tunc, " Bonnie Dundee," ,- .199 

From the Poet — with " The last time I e;inie o'er 
the moor," . . 400 

From Mr. Thomson — excuses his taste as ayainst 
the Poet's, „ „_„ 400 

From the Poet — dogmatically set against altering, WO 

'ihePoetto Mr. Thomson — Kraser the llauibov 
Player — Tunc .vid Song, " The Quaker's Wile" 
— " Blythc hae 1 been on yon Hill," lO'-l 

The same — mad ambition — ''Logan Braes" — Frag- 
ment from WiUierspoon's Collection — " O gin 
tnv lo\e were yon Red Rose." , 401 

Mr Thomson — in answer — a change of Partners in 
the Work, 401 

The Poet to Mr. Thomson — Tune aixl Air of 
" Bonnie Jean" — the Poet's Heroines, 402 

The tame — a remittance acknowledged—" Flow- 
ers of the Forest" — the Authoress — Pinkerton's 



Ancient Ballads — prophecies, ~ 



402 



Mr. Thomson to the Poet — Airs waiting the Mu 

The Poet to Mr. Thomson — Tune, ' Robin A- 
dair"- " Phillis the Fair" to it—" Cauld Kail 
in Alwrdecn," . 403 

From Mr. Thomson — grateful for the Poet's " v.i- 
lued Epistles" — wants Verses for " Down the 
bum Davie" — mentions Drawings for the Work, 403 

Prom the Poet — Tunc " Robin Adair" again — ■ 
•codt " Had I a Cave" to it — Gaelic origin of the 
Tunc, ~, „ ...,.... „ , 104 



Paffe. 
From the Poet— with New Song to " Allan Wa- 

From the same — with Song " WhisHe and I'll 
come to you, my Lad," and " Phillis the Fair," 
to the " Muckin' o' Geordie's byre," — .., ~ 404 

From the same — " Cauld Kail" — a Gloamin' Shot 
at tlie Muses, 405 

From the same — " Dainty Davie" — four lines of 
Song nnd four of Chorus, ....>. 405 

From Mr. 'Ihomson — profuse acknowledgments 
for many favours, . -. — 405 

From the Poet— Peter Pindar—" Scots wha hae 
vvi' Wallace bled" — " So may God defend the 
cause of truth and liberty as he did that day,"~ 404 

From the same— with Song " Behold the hour the 
Boat arrives," to the HigtiUind .Air " Oran gaoil," 406 

From Mr. Thomson — " Bruce's .\ddress" — the Air 
" Lewis Gordon" better for it than " Hey tuttie 
tatie" — verbal criticisms, ™, 406 

From the Poet — additional Verses to " Dainty 
Davie" — " Through the wood. Laddie" — " Cow- 
deii-knowei" — " Laddie lie near me" — the Poet's 
form of .Soiigrnaking— " Gill Morrice" — " High- 
land Laddie"—" Auld Sir Simeon" — " Fee him 
Fathei" — " There's nae luck about the House" 
— the finest of Love Ballads, " Saw ye my Fa. 
ther"' — " ■) odlin hame" — sends "Auld Lang 
Syne" — farther notices of other Songs and Bal- 

From the Poet — rejects the verbal criticism on the 
Ode, " liruce's Address," ~-,-. ,.,.-,.- «. 408 

From Mr. Thomson — Strictures on the Poet's no- 
tices of the above Songs — again nibbling at the 
Ode, 409 

From the Poet—" The O^e pleases me so much I 
cannot niter it" — sends Song " Where are the 
Joys I hae met in the mornin'," . 409 

From the Poet — sci;ds " Deluded Swain" and 
" Raving Winds around her blowing" — .Mrs 
ard Songs, to adopt or rejeet — differences of 

From ihe same — " Thine am I my KaitlUul Fair" 
— lo the " Quaker's Wife," which is just the 

Gaelic .Air " Liggeram cosh," -~ ~~. 410 

Fr. ni Kn. Thomson — in .inswer.™ „ 410 

From the Poet — Song to " My Jo Ja et," 410 

From Mr. Thomson— proposed conference — Re- 
marks on Drawings and Songs, 410 

From the Poit — same subjects — Plejel — a detmu 
— wher bv hiinlerancc ot IheWork — ^oiig " I'he 

Banks nf tree," ~-,™ „ 411 

From llie same-" The auspicious period preg- 
nant with the happiness ot Millions" — Inscrip- 
tion on a Copy of the Work presented to Miss 

Graham of Fii'itrj-, , 411 

From Mr. Thom.-on - in :i»»»rfr, . 4ji 

From the Poet — with Song " On the Seas and far 

From Mr. Thomson— criticises that Songseverely, 412 

From the Poet — withdrawing it — " making a Song 
is like bejjetling a Son" — sends " Ca' the yewes 
to the kiowcs,*" - ■ 412 

From Ihe same— Irish Air— sends Song to it " Sa; 
flaxen weie her ringlets" — Poet's lastc in Music 
like Frederic of Prussia's — has begun " O let me 
ill this ae night'— Epigram, 412 

From Mr. 'J homson — profuse of acknowledg- 
ments, „__„___ 413 

From the sarr.e — I'etA Pindar's task completed — 
Rilsun's Collection— dressing up of Old Soogs, 413 



CONTENTS. 



Page. 

fiom the Poet—" Craigie-bum Wood" and the 
heroine — Recipe for Song making— Song " Saw 
ye tny Phely"— " The Posie"— " Donochthead" 
not the Poet's — " Whistle o'er the lave o't" his 
— so is " Blythe was she" — sends Song " How 
lang and dreary is the night" — " Let not Wo- 
man e'er complain" — " Sleep'st thou" — East 
Indian Air — Song " The Auld Man," 414 

From Mr. Thomson— in acknowledgment, and 
with farther commissions, 415 

From the Poet— thanks for Ritson — Song of Chlo- 
ris — Love, Conjugal and Platonic — " Chloe" — 
" Lassie wi' the llntwhite locks" — " Maria's 
dwelling"—" Banks and Draes o' bonnie Doon" 
— Recipe to make a Scots Tune — humble re- 
quest for a Copy of the Work to give to a fe- 
male friend, . — ~ ■ 416-17 

From Mr. Thomson— in answer — criticisms — sends 
three Copies, and as welcome to 20 as to a pinch 
of snuff, 417 

From the Poet — Duet completed — sends Songs 
" O Philly happy be that day" — " Contented 
wi' little"—" Canst thou leave me thus my 
Katy" — Remarks on Songs and the Stock and 

From Mr. Thomson — modest acknowledgments — 

Pictures for the Work, 419 

From the Poet — with Song " Nannie's awa"— Pic- 

From the same — originality a coy feature in 
composition — sends " A man's a man for a' 
that — which shows that Song making is not 
confined to love and wine — new set of " Crai- 
gie-burn Wood," 419 

From Mr. Thomson — in acknowledgment, 419 

From the Poet — with, " O let me in this ae Night," 
and Answer, ,. ,. 420 

From the same — abuse of sweet Ecclefechan — air, 
" We'll gang nae mair to yon Town," is worthy 
of verses, „... ..^ 420 

From Mr< Thornton— in aBswer,„>.„>,> ,„.. „ 420 



Page. 



From the Poet— with four Songs, " The Wood- 
lark"— " Long, long the Night'—" Their groves 
o' sweet Myriles" — " 'Twas na her bonnie blue 
Een was my ruin, — 430 

From Mr. Thomson — acknowledgments — pictures 
for the work, ...„„ 420-1 

From the Poet— with two Songs, " How cruel are 
the Parents" — " Mark yonder Pomp" — adds, 
" Your Tailor could not be more punctual,"-.-. 481 

From the same — acknowledgment of a present,.^- 421 

From Mr. Thomson — Clarke's Air to Mallet's Bal- 
lad of " William and Margaret," „ 421 

From the Poet — with four Songs and Verses, 
" O Whistle and I'll come to ye, my Lad" — " O 
this is no my ain Lassie" — " Now Spring has 
clad the Grove in Green" — " O bonnie was yon 
rosy Brier," — Inscription on his Poems present- 
ed to a young Lady, 422 

From Mr. Thomson — in acknowledgment, ~~_ 422 

From the Poet — with English Song, " Forlorn, 

From the same— with Song, " Last May a bra' 
Wooer cam' down the lang Glen,"— a Frag- 
ment, -_ . . 423 

From Mr. Thomson — in answer, 423 

From the sami' — after an awful pause, 423 

From the Poet — acknowledges a Present to Mrs. 
B — sends Song, " Hey for a Lass wi' a Toch- 
er," . — . 424 

From Mr. Thomson — in answer,. 



From the Poet — health has deserted him, not the 

Muse, 424 

From Mr. Thomson — in answer, 424 



From the Poet — with Song, 
them that's awa." 



Here's a health to 



From the same— announces his purpose to revise 
all his Songs ....-—-. 425 

From the same — at Sea-bathing— depressed and in 
extremity, 425 

From Mr. Thomson— with a Remittance, 4S5 



LIFE 



OF 



ROBERT BURNS, 



CHAPTER I. 

Contents The Poet's Slrih, IT &9~ Circumstances and peculiar Character of kis Father 

and Mother — Hardships of his Early Years — Sources, such as they were, of his Mental 
Improvement — Commenceth Love and Poetry at IG. 



*' My father was a farmer upon the Carrick Border, 
And soberly he brought me up in decency and order." 

RobeJIT Burns was bom on the 25th of January 1759, in a clay-buiIt 
cottage, about two miles to the south of the town of Ayr, and in the im- 
mediate vicinity of the Ku-k of Alloway, and the " Auld Brig o' Doon." 
About a week afterwards, part of the frail dweUing, which his father had 
constructed with his own hands, gave way at midnight ; and the infant 
poet and his mother were carried through the storm, to the shelter of a 
neighbouring hovel. The father, William Burnes or Burness, (for so he 
spelt his name), was the son of a farmer in Kincardineshire, whence he re- 
moved at 19 years of age, in consequence of domestic embarrassments. 
The farm on which the family lived, formed part of the estate forfeited, 
in consequence of the rebellion of 1715, by the noble house of Keith 
Marischall ; and the poet took pleasure in saying, that his humble ances- 
tors shared the principles and the fall of their chiefs. Indeed, after Wil- 
liam Bunies settled in the west of Scotland, there prevailed a vague no- 
tion that he himself had been out in the insurrection of 1745-6 ; but though 
Robert would fain have interpreted his father's silence in favour of a tale 
which flattered his imagination, his brother Gilbert always treated it as a 
mere fiction, and such it was. Gilbert found among his father's papers a 
certificate of the minister of his native parish, testifying that " the bearer, 
William Burnes, had no hand in the late wicked rebellion." It is easy to 
suppose that when any obscure northern stranger fixed himself in those 
days in the Low Country, such rumours werfj likely enough to be circu- 
lated concerning him. 



ii LIFE OF ROBERT BlTRNS. 

William Burnes laboured for some years in the neighbourhood of Edin- 
burgh as a gardener, and then found his way into Ayrshire. At the time 
when Robert was born, he was gardener and overseer to a gentleman of 
small estate, Mr. Ferguson of Doonholm ; but resided on a few acres of 
land, which he had on lease from another proprietor, and where he had 
originally intended to establish himself as a nurseryman. He married 
Agnes Brown in December 1757, and the poet was their first-born. Wil- 
liam Burnes seems to have been, in his humble station, a man eminently 
entitled to respect. He had received the ordinary learning of a Scottish 
parish school, and profited largely both by that and by his own experience 
in the world. " I have met with few," (said the poet, after he had him- 
.self seen a good deal of mankind), " who understood men, their manners, 
and their ways, equal to my father." He was a strictly religious man. 
There exists in his handwriting a little manual of theology, in the form 
of a dialogue, which he drew up for the use of his children, and from 
which it appears that he had adopted more of the Arminian than of the 
Calvinistic doctrine ; a circumstance not to be wondered at, when we con- 
sider that he had been educated in a district which was never numbered 
among the strongholds of the Presbyterian church. The affectionate re- 
verence with which his children ever regarded him, is attested by all who 
have described him as he appeared in his domestic circle ; but there needs 
no evidence beside that of the poet himself, who has painted, in colours 
that will never fade, " the saint, the father, and the husband," of The 
Cottars Saturday Night. 

Agnes Brown, the wife of this good man, is described as " a very sagaci- 
ous woman, without any appearance of forwardness, or awkwardness of man- 
ner;" and it seems that, in features, and, as he grew up, in general address, 
the poet resembled her more than his father. She had an inexhaustible store 
of ballads and traditionary tales, and appears to have nourished his infant 
imagination by this means, while her husband paid more attention to " the 
weightier matters of the law." These worthy people laboured hard for 
the support of an increasing family. William was occupied with Mr. Fer- 
guson's service, and Agnes contrived to manage a small dairy as well as 
her children. But though their honesty and diligence merited better things, 
their condition continued to be very uncomfortable ; and our poet, (in his 
letter to Dr. Moore), accounts distinctly for his being born and bred " a 
very poor man's son," by the remark, that " stubborn ungainly integrity, 
and headlong ungovernable irascibility, are disqualifying circumstances." 

These defects of temper did not, however, obscure the sterling worth 
of William Burnes in the eyes of Mr. Ferguson ; who, when his garde- 
ner expressed a wish to try his for tuneon a farm of his, then vacant, and 
confessed at the same time his inability to meet the charges of stocking it, 
at once advanced ,€100 towards the removal of the difficulty. Burnes ac- 
cordingly removed to this farm (that of Mount Oliphant, in the parish of 
Ayr) at Whitsuntide 1766, when his eldest son was between six and seven 
years of age. But the soil proved to be of the most ungrateful descrip- 
tion ; and Mr. Ferguson dying, and his aftairs falling into the hands of a 
YiBxsh factor, (who afterwards sat for his picture in the Tiva Dogs), Burnes 
was glad to give up his bargain at the end of six years. He then removed 
about ten miles to a larger and better farm, that of Lochlea, in the parish 
of Tarbolton. But here, after a short interval of prosperity, some unfor- 
tunate misunderstanding took place as to the conditions of the lease ; the 



LIFE OF ROBERT BtTRNS. iii 

dispute was referred to arbitration ; and, after three years of suspense, the 
result involved Burnes in ruin. The worthy man lived to know of this de- 
cision ; but death saved him from witnessing its necessary consequences. 
He died of consumption on the 13th February 1784. Severe labour, and 
hopes only renewed to be baffled, had at last exhausted a robust but irri- 
table structure and temperament of body and of mind. 

In the midst of the harassing struggles which found this termination, 
William Burnes appears to have used his utmost exertions for promoting 
the mental improvement of his children — a duty rarely neglected by Scot- 
tish parents, however humble their station, and scanty their means may 
be. Robert was sent, in his sixth year, to a small school at Alloway 
Miln, about a mile from the house in v/hich he was born ; but Campbell, 
the teacher, being in the course of a few months removed to another 
situation, Burnes and four or five of his neighbours engaged Mr. John 
Murdoch to supply his place, lodging him by turns in their own houses, 
and ensuring to him a small payment of money quarterly. Robert Burns, 
and Gilbert his next brother,'Avere the aptest and the favourite pupils of 
this worthy man, who survived till very lately, and who has, in a letter 
published at length by Currie, detailed, with honest pride, the part Avhich 
he had in the early education of our poet. He became the frequent in- 
mate and confidential friend of the family, and speaks with enthusiasm of 
the virtues of William Burnes, and of the peaceful and happy life of his 
humble abode. 

" He was (saysMurdocli) a tender and affectionate father ; he took plea- 
sure in leading his children in the path of virtue ; not in driving them, as 
some parents do, to the perform.ance of duties to v/hich they themselves are 
averse. He took care to find fault but very seldom ; and therefore, when 
he did rebuke, he was listened to with a kind of reverential awe. A look 
of disapprobation was felt ; a reproof was severely so : and a stripe with 
the tawz, even on the skirt of the coat, gave heart-felt pain, produced a 
loud lamentation, and brought forth a flood of tears. 

" He had the art of gaining the esteem and good-will of those that were 
labourers under him. 1 think I never saw him. angry but twice : the one 
time it was with the foreman of the band, for not reaping the field as he 
was desired ; and the other time, it was with an old man, for using smutty 
inuendos and double e?ifend>es." " In this mean cottage, of which I my- 
self was at times an inhabitant, I really believe there dwelt a larger por- 
tion of content than in any palace in Europe. T/ie Cottar's Saturday Night 
will give some idea of the temper and manners that prevailed there." 

The boys, under the joint tuition of Murdoch and their father, made ra- 
pid progress in reading, spelling, and writing ; they committed psalms and 
nymns to memory with extraordinary ease — the teacher taking care (as he 
tells us) that they should understand the exact meaning of each word in 
the sentence ere they tried to get it by heart. " As soon," says he, " as 
they were capable of it, I taught them to turn verse into its natural prose 
order ; sometimes to substitute synonymous expressions for poetical words ; 
and to supply all the ellipses. Robert and Gilbert were generally at the 
upper end of the class, even when ranged with boys by far their seniors, 
The books most commonly used in the school were the Spelling Booh. 
the New Testament, the Bible, Masons Coliectifin of Prose and Verse, and 
Fisher's English Grammar." — ." Gilbert always appeard to me to possess a 
more lively imagination, and to be more oi>' the wit, than Robert. I at- 



!v LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

tempted to teach tliem a little church-music. Here they were left far be- 
hind by all the rest of the school. Robert's eai, in particular, was remark- 
ably dull, and his voice untunable. It was long before I could get them 
to distinguish one tune from another. Robert's countenance was general- 
ly grave and expressive of a serious, contemplative, and thoughtful mind. 
Gilbert's face said, 3Iir(k, with thee I mean to live; and certainly, if any 
person who knew the two boys, had been asked which uf them was the 
most likely to court the INTuses, he would never have guessed that Robert 
had a propensity of that kind." 
J "At those years," says the poet himself, in 1787, " I was by no means 
( a favourite with anybody. I was a good deal noted for a retentive memory, 
! a stubborn sturdy something in my disposition, and an enthusiastic idiot 
piety. I say idiot piety, because I was then but a child. Though it cost 
the schoolmaster some thrashings, I made an excellent English scholar ; 
and by the time I was ten or eleven years of age, I was a critic in substan- 
I lives, verbs, and particles. In my infant and boyish days, too, I owed 
^ — much to an old woman who resided in the family, remarkable for her 
ignorance, credulity, and superstition. She had, I suppose, the largest 
collection in the country of tales and songs concerning devils, ghosts, fairies, 
brownies, witches, warlocks, spunkies, kelpies, elf-candles, dead-lights, 
wraiths, apparitions, cantraips, giants, enchanted towers, dragons, and other 
trumpery. This cultivated the latent seeds of poetry ; but had so strong 
an effect on my imagination, that to this hour, in my nocturnal rambles, I 
sometimes keep a sharp look-out in suspicious places ; and though nobody 
can be more sceptical than I am in such matters, yet k often takes an ef- 
fort of philosophy to shake off these idle terrors. The earliest composition 
that I recollect taking pleasure in, was 77ie Vision of Mirza, and a hymn 
of Addison's, beginning, How are thy servants blest, O Lord ! I particular- 
ly remember one half-stanza, which was music to my boyish ear — 

" For though on dreadful whirls we hung 
High on the broken wave—" 

1 met with these pieces in Masons English Collection, one of my school- 
books. The two first, books I ever read in private, and which gave me 
more pleasure than any two books I ever read since, were, The Life of Han- 
nibal, and The History of Sir William Wallace. Hannibal gave my young 
ideas such a turn, that I used to strut in raptures up and down after the 
recruiting drum and bagpipe, and wish myself tall enough to be a soldier ; 
while the story of Wallace poured a tide of Scottish prejudice into my 
reins, which will boil along there till the flood-gates of life shut in eternal 
rest." 

Murdoch continued his instructions until the family had been about two 
years at Mount Oliphant — when he left for a time that part of the country. 
" There being no school near us," says Gilbert Burns, " and our little ser- 
vices being already useful on the farm, my father undertook to teach us arith- 
metic in the winter evenings by candle light — and in this way my two elder 
sisters received all the education they ever received." Gilbert tells an anec- 
dote which must not be omitted here, since it furnishes an early instance 
of the liveliness of his brotlier's imagination. Murdoch, bcingon a visit 
to the family, read aloud one evening part of the tragedy of Titus Andro- 
nicas — the circle listened w^tli the deepest interest until he came to Act 
^ Bc. 5, where Lavinia is »' itroduced <' with her hands cut off, and her 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. f 

tongue cut out." At this the children entreated, with one voice, in an 
agony of distress, that their friend would read no more. " If ye will not 
hear the play out," said William Burnes, " it need not be left with you." 
— " If it be left," cries Robert, " I will burn it." His father was about 
to chide him for this return to Murdoch's kindness — but the good' young 
man interfered, saying he liked to see so much sensibility, and left T/ie 
School for Love in place of his truculent tragedy. At this time Robert 
was nine years of age. ''• Nothing," continues Gilbert Burns, " could be 
more retired than our general manner of living at Mount Oliphant ; we 
rarely saw any body but the members of our own family. There were no 
boys of our own age, or near it, in the neighbourhood. Indeed the greatest 
part of the land in the vicinity was at that time possessed by shopkeepei's, 
and people of that stamp, who had retired from business, or who kept their 
farm in the country, at the same time that they followed business in town. 
My father was for some time almost the only companion we had. He con- 
versed familiarly on all subjects with us, as if we had been men ; and was 
at great pains, while we accompanied him in the labours of the farm, to 
lead the conversation to such subjects as might tend to increase our know- 
ledge, or confirm us in virtuous habits. He borrowed Salmons Geogra- 
phical Grammar for us, and endeavoured to make us acquainted with the 
situation and history of the different countries in the world ; while, from a 
book-society in Ayr, he procured for us the reading of Derhams Physico 
and Astro-Theology, and Bays Wisdom of God hi the Creation, to give us 
some idea of astronomy and natural history. Robert read all these books 
with an avidity and industry scarcely to be equalled. My father had been 
a subscriber to Stackhouscs History of the Bible. From this Robert col- 
lected a competent knowledge of ancient history; for no hook was so vc 
luminous as to slacken his industry, or so antiquated as to damp his researches." 
A collection of letters by eminent English authors, is mentioned as having 
fallen into Burns's hands much about the same time, and greatly delighted 
him. 

When Burns was about tliirteen or fourteen years old, his father sent 
him and Gilbert " week about, during a summer quarter," to the parish 
school of Dalrymple, two or three miles distant from Mount Oliphant, for 
the improvement of their penmanship. The good man could not pay two 
fees ; or his two boys could not be spared at the same time from the la- 
bour of the farm ! " We lived very poorly," says the poet. " I was a dex- 
terous ploughman for my age ; and the next eldest to nie was a brother, 
(Gilbert), who could drive the plough very well, and help me to thrash the 
corn. A novel writer might perhaps have viewed these scenes with some 
satisfaction, but so did not I. ]\Iy indignation yet boils at the recollection 
of the scoundrel factor's insolent letters, which used to set us all in tears." 
Gilbert Burn^'gives his brother's situation at this period in greater detail 
— " To the'buffetings of misfortune," says he, <' we could only oppose 
hard labour and' the most rigid economy. We lived very sparingly. For 
several ye^rs butcher's meat was a stranger in the house, while all the 
members of the family exerted themselves to the utmost of their strength 
and rather beyond it, in the labours of the farm. My brother, at the age 
of thirteen, assisted in thrashing the crop of corn, and at fifteen was the 
principal labourer on the farm, for we had no hired servant, male or female. 
The anguish of mind we felt at our tender years, under these straits and 
difficulties, was very great. To think of our father growing old (for he >vas 



vl LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

now above fifty), broken down with the long-continued fatigues of his life, 
with a wife and five other children, and in a declining state of circumstances, 
these reflections produced in my brother's mind and mine sensations of tlie 
deepest distress. I doubt not but the hard labour and sorrow of this pe- 
riod of his life, was in a great measure the cause of that depression of spirits 
with which Robert was so often afflicted through his whole life afterwards. 
At this time he was almost constantly afflicted in the evenings with a dull 
headach, which, at a future period of his life, was exchanged for a palpita- 
tion of the heart, and a threatening of fainting and suffocation in his bed, in 
the night-time." 

The year after this, Burns was able to gain three weeks of respite, ono 
before, and two after the harvest, from the labours which were thus strain- 
ing his youthful strength. His tutor Murdoch was now established in the 
town of Ayr, and the boy spent one of these weeks in revising the English 
grammar with him ; the other two were given to French. He laboured 
enthusiastically in the new pursuit, and came home at the end of a fort- 
night with a dictionary and a Telemaqiie, of which he made such use at his 
.eisure hours, by himself, that in a short time (if we may believe Gilbert) 
he was able to undCTStand any ordinary book of French prose. His pro- 
gress, whatever it reall}' amounted to, was looked on as something of a 
prodigy ; and a writing-master in Ayr, a friend of Murdoch, insisted that 
Robert Burns must next attempt tlte rudhuents of the Latin tongue. He 
did so, but with little perseverance, we may be sure, since the results were 
of no sort of value. Burns"s Latin consisted of a few scraps of hackneyed 
quotations, such as many that never looked into Ruddiman's Rudiments 
can apply, on occasion, quite as skilfully as he ever appears to have done. 
The matter is one of no importance ; we might perhaps safely dismiss it 
with parodying what Ben Jonson said of Shakspeare ; he had little 
French, and no Latin. He had read, hov/cver, and read well, ere his six- 
teenth year elapsed, no contemptible amount of the literature of liis own 
country. In addition to the books which have already been mentioned, he 
tells us that, ere the family quitted Mount Oliphant, he had read " the 
Spectator, some plays of Shakspeare, Pope, (the Homer included), Tull 
and Dickson on Agriculture, Locke on the Human Understanding, Jus- 
tice's British Gardener's Directory^ Boyle's Lectures, Taylor's Scripture 
Doctrine of Original Sin, A Select Collection of English Songs, Hervey'a 
Meditations" (a book which has ever been very popular among the Scottish 
peasantry), " and the Works of Allan Ramsay ;" and Gilbert adds to this 
list Pamela, (the fitst novel either of the brothers read), two stray vo- 
lumes of Peregrine Pickle, two of Count Fathom, and a single volume of 
" some English historian," containing the reigns of James L, and his son. 
The " Collection of Songs," says Burns, was my vade mecum. I pored 
over them, driving my cart, or walking to labour, song by song, verse by 
verse ; carefully noticing the true, tender, or sublime, frordfei^gtation or 
fustian ; and I am convinced I owe to this practice muclmuBBKc-craft, 

He derived, during this period, considerable advantages^^m^e vicinity 
of Mount Oliphant to the town of Ayr— a place then, and still, distinguish- 
ed by the residence of many respectable gentlemen's families, and a con- 
sequent elegance of society and manners, not common in remote provin- 
cial situations. To his friend, Mr. Murdoch, he no doubt owed, in the first 
instance, whatever attentions he received there from people older as well 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. vii 

as higher than himself: some such persons appear to have taken a pleasure 
in lending him books, and surely no kindness could have been more useful 
to him than this. As for his coevals, he himself says, very justly, " It is 
not commonly at that green age that our young gentry have a just sense 
of the distance between them and their ragged playfellows. My young 
superiors," he proceeds, " never insulted the chuterly appearance of my 
plough-boy carcass, the two extremes of which were often exposed to all 
the inclemencies of all the seasons. They would give me stray volumes 
of books : among them, even then, I could pick up some observation ; and 
one, whose heart I am sure not even the Munny Begum scenes have tainted, 
helped me to a little French. Parting with these, my young friends and 
benefactors, as they occasionally went off for the East or West Indies, was of- 
ten to me a sore affliction, — but I was soon called to more serious evils." — 
(Letter to Moore). The condition of the family during the last two years 
of their residence at INIount Oliphant, when the struggle which ended in 
their removal was rapidly approaching its crisis, has been already describ- 
ed ; nor need we dwell again on the untimely burden of sorrow, as well as 
toil, which fell to the share of the youthful poet, aj^|»hich would have 
broken altogether any mind wherein feelings like hi^^B existed, without 
strength like his to control them. The removal of tnWamily to Lochlea, 
in the parish of Tarbolton, took place when Burns was in his sixteenth year. 
He had some time before this made his first attempt in verse, and the occa- 
sion is thus described by himself in his letter to Moore. " This kind of life — 
the cheerless gloom of a hermit, with the unceasing moil of a galley-slave, 
brought me to my sixteenth year ; a little before which period I first commit- 
ted the sin of RhjTne. You know our coimtry custom of coupling a man and 
woman together as partners in the labours of harvest. In my fifteenth au- 
tumn my partner was a bewitching creature, a year younger than myself. 
My scarcity of English denies me the power of doing her justice in that 
language ; but you know the Scottish idiom — she was a bonnie, sweet, sonsie 
lass. In short, she. altogether unwittingly to herself, initiated me in that 
dehcious passion, which, iu spite of acid disappointment, gin-horse pru- 
dence, and book-worm philosophy, I hold to be the first of human joys, oiif 
dearest blessing here below ! How slie caught the contagion, I cannot tell : 
you medical people talk much of infection from breathing the same air, the 
touch, &c. ; but I never expressly said I loved her. Indeed, I did not know 
mj'^self why I liked so much to loiter behind with her, when returning in 
the evening from our labours ; why the tones of her voice made my heart- 
strings thrill like an ^^olian harp ; and particularly why my pulse beat such 
a furious ratan, when I looked and fingered over her little hand, to pick cut 
the cruel nettle-stings and thistles. Among her other love-inspiring qua- 
lities, she sung sweetly ; and it was her favourite reel, to which I attempted 
jodied vehicle in rhyme. I was not so presumptuous as to 
3uld make verses like printed ones, composed by men who 
itin ; but my girl sung a song, which "was said to be com- 
)untry laird's son, on one of his father's maids, with whom 
ind I saw no reason why I might not rhyme as well as he ; 
lat he could smear sheep, and cast peats, his father living 
in the moorlands, he had no more scholar-craft than myself. 

" Thus with me began love and poetry ; which at times have been my 
only, and till within the last twelve months, have been vay highest enjoy- 
ment." 




VnJ tIFE OP ROBERT BURNS, 

The earJieet of the poet's productions is the little bftUacli 

*' O once I loved a bonny lass. 

Burns himself characterises it as " a very puerile and silly performance ;" 
yet it contains here and there lines of which he need hardly have been 
ashamed at any period of his life : — 

" She dresses aye sae clean and neat, 
Daith decent and genteel, 
And then there's something in her gait 
Gars ony dress look weel." 

" Silly and puerile as it is,** said the poet, long afterwards, "I am al- 
ways pleased with this song, as it recalls to my mind those happy days 
when my heart was yet honest, and my tongue sincere...! composed it in a 
wild enthusiasm of passion, and to this hour I never recollect it but my 
heart melts, my blood sallies, at the remembrance." (MS, Memorandum 
book, August 178 3. 

In his first episl^fciLapraik (1785) he says — 



3 3^ 
'^Haist I 



; as soon as I could spell, 
I to the crambo-jingle fell, 

Tho' rude and rough ; 
Yet crooning to a body's sell 

Does weel eneugh." 

And in some nobler verses, entitled " On my Early Days," we have the 
following passage : — 

" I mind it weel in early date, 
When I was beardless, young and blatCj 

And first could thrash the bam, 
Or haud a yokin' o' the pleugh. 
An' tho' forfoughten sair eneugh, 

Yet unco proud to learn — 
When first amang tlie yellow corn 
* A man I reckoned was, 

An' wi' the lave ilk merry mom 

Could rank my rig and lass- 
Still shearing and clearing 

The tither stookit raw, 
Wi' claivers and haivers 

Wearing the day awa — 
E'en then a wish, I mind its power, 
A wish that to my latest hour 

Shall strongly heave my breast : 
That I for poor auld Scotland's sake, 
Some useful plan or book could make, 

Or sing a sang, at least : 
The rough bur-thistle spreading wide 

Amang the bearded bear, 
I turn'd the weeder-clips aside, 

And spared the symbol dear." 

He is hardly to be envied who can contemplate \\ithoul,emotl8h, this 
exquisite picture of young nature and young genius. Jt^as a^jinst such 
scenes that this extraordinary being felt those first indcfinifeJ' stirrings of 
immortal ambition, which he has himself shadowed out under the magnifi- 
cent image of << the blind gropings of Homer's Cyclops, mound the walls 
of his cave," 



CHAPTER II, 

CoKMNTS. —i^om 11 to 24 — Robert and Gilbert Sums work to their Father, as Labourers, 
at stated Wages — At Rural Wurk the Poet feared no Competitor — This period not marktd 
by much Mental Improvement — At Dancing- School — Progress in Love and Poetry — At 
School at Kirkoswald's — Bad Company — At Irvine— 'Flaxdressing— Becomes there Mofk ■ 
ier of a BatcheloTs Club. 



" O enviable early days, 
When dancing tliougbtlcss pleasure's maze, 

To care and guilt unknown ! 
How ill exchanged lor riper times, 
To feel the follies or the crimes 

Of others — or my own !" 

As has been already mentioned, William Burnes now quitted Mount 
Oliphant for Lochlea, in the parish of Tarbolton, where, for some little 
space, fortune appeared to smile on his industry and frugahty. Robert 
and Gilbert were employed by their father as regular labourers — he allow- 
ing them £7 of wages each per annum ; from which sum, however, the 
value of any home-made clothes received by the youths was exactly de- 
ducted. Robert Burns's person, inui*ed to daily toil, and continually expos- 
ed to every variety of weather, presented, before the usual time, every cha- 
racteristic of robust and vigorous manhood. He says himself, that he never 
feared a competitor in any species of rural exertion ; and Gilbert Bums, 
a man of uncommon bodily strength, adds, that neither he, nor any labourer 
he ever saw at work, was equal to the youthful poet, either in the corn 
field, or the severer tasks of the thrashing-floor. Gilbert saj's, that Ro- 
bert's literary zeal slackened considerably after their removal to Tarbolton. 
He was separated from his acquaintances of the town of Ayr, and proba- 
bly missed not only the stimulus of their conversation, but the kindness 
that had furnished him with his supply, such as it was, of books. But the 
main source of his change of habits about this period was, it is confessed 
on all hands, the precocious fervour of one of Ins own turbulent passions. 

" In my seventeenth year," says Burns, " to give my manners a brush, I 
went to a country dancing-school. — My father had an unaccountable anti- 
pathy against these meetings ; and my going was, what to this moment I 
repent, in opposition to his wishes. My father was subject to strong pas- 
sions ; from that instance of disobedience in me, he took a sort of dislike 
to me,*, which "I believe was one cause of the dissipation which marked my 
succeed^Dg !jfears. I say dissipation, comparatively with the strictness, 
and sobriety, and regularity of Presbyterian country life ; for though the 
Will- o' -Wisp meteors of thoughtless whim were almost the sole lights of 
my path, yet early ingrained piety and virtue kept me for several years 
afterwards within the line of Innocence. The great misfortune of my life 
was to want an aim. I saw my father's situation entailed on iae perpetual 
labour. The only two openings by which I could enter the temple of For- 

4 



ac LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

tune, were the gate of nigardly economy, or the path of httle chicaning 
bargain-making. The first is so contracted an aperture, I couUl never 
squeeze myself into it; — the last I always hated — there was contamination 
in the very entrance ! Thus ahandoned of aim or view in life, with a 
strong appetite for sociahility, as well from native hilarity, as from a pride 
of observation and remark ; a constitutional melancholy or hypochondria- 
cism that made me fly solitude ; add to these incentives to social life, my 
reputation for bookish knowledge, a certain wild logical talent, and a 
strength of thought, something like the rudiments of good sense ; and it 
will not seem surjjrising that 1 was generally a welcome guest where I vi- 
sited, or any great wonder that, always where two or three met together, 
there was I among them. But far beyond all other impulses of my heart, 
was un penchant j)0UT I' adorable moitie dii genre hnmain, ]\Iy heart was com- 
pletely tinder, and was eternally lighted up by some goddess or other ; 
and as in every other warfare in this world my fortune was various, some- 
times I was received with favour, and sometimes I was mortified with a 
repulse. At the plough, scythe, or reap-hook, I feared no competitor, and 
thus I set absolute wimt at defiance ; and as I never cared farther for my 
labours than while I was in actual exercise, I spent the evenings in the 
way after my own heart. A country lad seldom carries on a love adven- 
ture without an assisting confidant. I possessed a curiosity, zeal, and in- 
trepid dexterity, that recommended me as a proper second on these occa- 
sions, and I dare say, I felt as much pleasure in being in the secret of 
half the loves of the parish of Tarbolton, as ever did statesman in knowing 
the intrigues of half the courts of Europe." 

In regard to the same critical period of Burns's life, his excellent brother 
writes as follows : — " 1 wonder how Robert could attribute to our father that 
lasting resentment of his going to a dancing-school against his will, of which 
he was incapable. I believe the truth was, that about this time he began 
to see the dangerous impetuosity of my brother's passions, as well as his 
not being amenable to counsel, which often irritated my father, and which 
he would naturally think a dancing-school was not likely to correct. But 
he was proud of Robert's genius, which he bestowed more expense on 
cultivating than on the rest of the family — and he was equally delighted 
with his warmth of heart, and conversational powers. lie had indeed that 
dislike of dancing-schools which Robert mentions ; but so far overcame it 
during Robert's first month of attendance, that he permitted the rest of 
the family that were fit for it, to accompany him during the second month. 
Robert excelled in dancing, and was for some time distractedly fond of it. 
And thus the seven years we lived in Tarbolton parish (extending from the 
seventeenth to the twenty-fourth of my brother's age) were not marked by 
much literary improvement ; but, during this time, the foundation was laid 
of certain habits in my brother's character, which afterwards became but 
too prominent, and which malice and envy have taken delight to enlarge 
on. Though, when young, he was bashful and awkward in his intercourse 
with women, yet when he approached manhood, his attachment to their 
society became very strong, and he was constantly the victim of some 
fair enslaver. The symptoms of his passion were often such as nearly to 
equal those of the celebrated Sappho. I never indeed knew that he 
fainted, sunk, arid died aivay ; but the agitations of his mind and body 
exceeded any thing of tlie kind I ever knew in real life. He had always a 
particular jealousy of people >vho were richer than himself, or who had 



LIF£ OF ROBERT BURNS. ^ 

more consequence in life. His love, therefore, rarely settled on persons 
of this description. When he selected any one out of the sovereignty of 
his good pleasure to whom he should pay his particular attention, she was 
instantly invested M^ith a sufficient stock of charms, out of the plentiful 
stores of his own imagination ; and there was often a great dissimilitude 
between his fair captivator, as she appeared to others, and as she seemed 
when invested with the attributes he gave her. One generally reigned 
paramount in his affections ; but as Yorick's affections flowed out toward 

Madame de L at the remise door, while the eternal vows of Eliza were 

upon him, so Robert was frequently encountering other attractions, which 
formed so many under-plots in the drama of his love." 

Thus occupied with labour, love, and dancing, the youth " without an 
aim" found leisure occasionally to clothe the sufficiently various moods of 
his mind in rhymes. It was as early as seventeen, (he tells us),* that he 
wrote some stanzas which begin beautifully : 

" I dream'd I lay where flowers were springing 

Gaily in the sunny beam ; 
Listening to the wild birds singing, 

By a fallen crystal stream. 
Straight the sky grew black and daring, 

Thro' the woods the whirlwinds rave, 
Trees with aged arms were warring, 

O'er the swelling drumlie wave. 
Such was life's deceitful morning," &c. 

On comparing these verses with those on " Handsome Nell," the ad- 
vance achieved by the young bard in the course of two short years, must 
be regarded with admiration ; nor should a minor circumstance be entirely 
overlooked, that in the piece which we have just been quoting, there occurs 
but one Scotch word. It was about this time, also, that he wrote a ballad of 
much less ambitious vein, which, years after, he says, he used to con over 
with delight, because of the faithfulness with which it recalled to him the 
circumstances and feelings of his opening manhood. 

I — " Rly father was a farmer upon the Carrick Border, 
And carefully he brought me up in decency and order. 
And bade me act a manly part, tho' I had ne'er a farthing ; 
For without an honest manly heart, no man was worth regarding. 

Then out into the world my course I did determine ; 
Tho'' to he rich was not viy •ccish, yet to he great rvas charming; 
My talents they were tint the rcorst, nor yet my education ; ^ 
Resolved was 1 at least to try to mend my situation. 

No help, nor hope, nor view had I, nor person to befriend me ; 
So I must toil, and sweat, and broil, and labour to sustain me. 
To plough and sow, to reap and mow, my father bred me early { 
For one, he said, to labour bred, was a match for fortune fairly. 

Thus all obscure, unknown and poor, thro' life I'm doomed to vander ; 
Till down my weary bones I lay, in everlasting slumber. 
No view, nor care, but shun whate'er might breed me pain or sorrow ; 
I live to-day, ss well's I raay, regardless of to-morrow, ' &c. 

These are the only two of his very early productions in which we have 
nothing expressly about love. The rest were composed to celebrate the 
charms of those rural beauties who followed each other in the dominion of 

" Beliques, p. 242. 



jtM LIFE OP ROBERT BQRNS 

his fancy — or shared the capricious throne between them ; and we may 
easily believe, that one who possessed, with his other quahfications, such 
powers of flattering, feared competitors as httle in the diversions of his 
evenings as in the toils of his day. 

The rural lover, in those districts, pursues his tender vocation in a style, 
the especial fascination of which town-bred swains may find it some- 
what difficult to comprehend. After the labours of the day are over, nay, 
very often after he is supposed by the inmates of his own fireside to be in 
his bed, the happy youth thinks little of walking many long Scotch miles 
to the residence of his mistress, who, upon the signal of a tap at her win- 
dow, comes forth to spend a soft hour or two beneath the harvest moon, 
or, if the Aveather be severe, (a circumstance which never prevents the 
journey from being accomplished), amidst the sheaves of her father's barn. 
This " chappin' out," as they call it, is a custom of which parents com- 
monly wink at, if they do not openly apjn'ove, the observance ; and the 
consequences are far, very far, more frequently quite harmless, than per- 
sons not familiar with the peculiar manners and feelings of our peasantry 
may find it easy to believe. Excursions of this class form the theme of 
almost all the songs which Burns is known to have produced about this pe- 
riod, — and such of these juvenile performances as have been preserved, 
are, without exception, beautiful. They show how powerfully his boyish 
fancy had been affected by the old rural minstrelsy of his own country, 
and how easily his native taste caught the secret of its charm. The truth 
and simplicity of nature breathe in every line — the images are always just, 
often originally happy — and the growing refinement of his ear and judg- 
ment, may be traced in the terser language and more mellow flow of each 
successive ballad. 

The best of the songs written at this time is that begmning,— 

*' It was upon a Lamm:is night, 
W'hen corn rigs are bonnie. 
Beneath the moon's unclouded light, 

I held awa to Annie. 
The time flew by wi' tentless heed, 

Till, 'tween the late and early, 
^V'i' snia' persuasion she agreed 
To see nie thro' the barley." 

We may let the poet carry on his own story. " A circumstance," says 
he, *' which made some alteration on my mind and manners, was, that I 
spent my nineteenth summer on a smuggling coast, a good distance from 
home, at a noted school (Kirkoswald's) to learn mensuration, surveying, 
dialling, &c., in which I made a good progress. But I made a greater pro- 
gress in the knowledge of mankind. The contraband trade was at that 
time very successful, and it sometimes happened to me to fall in with those 
who carried it on. Scenes of swaggering riot and roaring dissipation were 
till this time new to me ; but I was no enemy to social life. Here, though 
I leas'nt to fill my glass, and to mix without fear in a drunken squabble, yet 
I went on with a high hand with my geometry, till the sun entered Virgo, 
a month which is always a carnival in my bosom, when a charming ^/ef/e, 
who lived next door to the school, overset my trigonometry, and set me 
off at a tangent from the sphere of my studies. I, however, struggled on 
with my sines and co-sines for a few days more ; but stepping into the gar- 
den one charming noon to take the sun's altitude, there I met my angel, 
like-— 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. ;tm 

" Proserjiine, gathc!!ing flowers, 
Herself a fairer flower." 

" It was in vain to think of doing any more good at school. The remain- 
ing week I staid, I did nothing but craze the faculties of my soul about 
her, or steal out to meet her ; and the two last nights of my stay in the 
country, had sleep been a mortal sin, the image of this modest and inno- 
cent girl had kept me guiltless. I returned home very considerably improved. 
My reading ivas enlarged v/itli the very important addition of Thomson's 
and Shenstone's Works ; I had seen human nature in a new phasis ; and I 
engaged several of my school -follows to keep up a literary correspondence 
with me. This improved me in composition. I had met with a collection 
of letters by the visits of Queen Anne's reign, and I pored over them most 
devoutly ; I kept copies of any of my own letters that pleased me ; and a 
comparison between them and the composition of most of my correspon- 
dents flattered my vanity. I carried this whim so far, that though I had 
not three farthings worth of business in the world, yet almost every post 
brought me as many letters as if I had been a broad plodding son of day- 
book and ledger. My life flowed on much in the same course till my 
twenty-third year. Vive rnmonr, et rive la bagatelle, were my sole princi- 
ples of action. The addition of two more authors to my library gave me 
great pleasure; Sterne and ?Jackcnzie — Tristram Shandy and. The Man 
of Feeliiig — were my bosom favourites. Poesy was still a darling walk for 
my mind ; but it was only indulged in according to the humour of the hour. 
I had usually half a dozen or more pieces on hand; I took up one or other, 
as it suited the momentary tone of the mind, and dismissed the work as 
it bordered on fatigue. Ivly passions, once lighted up, raged like so many 
devils, till they found vent in rhyme ; and then the conning over my verses, 
like a spell, soothed all Into quiet." 

Of the rhymes of those days, few, when he wrote his letter to Moore, had 
appeared in print. Winter, a dirge, an admirably versified piece, is of their 
number ; The Death of Poor Mailie, 3Iailie's Elegy, and John Barleycorn; 
and one charming song, inspired by the Nymph of Kirkoswald's, whose at- 
tractions put an end to his trigonometry. 

" Now ■westlin winds, and slaughtering guns. 

Bring Autumn's pleasant weather ; 
The moorcock springs, on whirring wings, 

Amang the blooming heather. ... 
—Peggy dear, the evening's clear, 

Thick flies the skimming swallow ; 
The sky is blue, the fields in view, 

All fading green and yellow ; 
Come let us stray our gladsome way," &c» 

John Barleycorn is a clever old ballad, very cleverly new-modelled and 
extended ; but the Death and Elegy of Poor 3Iailie deserve more atten- 
tion. The expiring animal's admonitions touching the education of the 
" poor toop lamb, her son and heir," and the " yowie, silly thing," her 
daughter, are from the same peculiar vein of sly homely wit, embedded 
upon fancy, which he afterwards dug with a bolder hand In the Ttra Dogs, 
and perhaps to its utmost depth, in his Death and Doctor Hornbook. It 
need scarcely be added, that Poor Mailie was a real personage, though she 
did not actually die until some time after her last words were written. She 
had been purchased by Burns in a frolic, and became exceedingly attached 
to his person. 



Xiy LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

" Thro' all the town she trotted by him ; 
A lang half-mile she could descry him ; 
Wi' kmdly bleat, when she did spy him, 

She ran wi' speed : 
A friend mair faithlu' ne'er came nigh him, 

Than JVIailie dead." 

These little pieces are in a much broader dialect than any of their pre* 
uecessors. His merriment and satire were, from the beginning, Scotch. 
Notwithstanding the luxurious tone of some of Burns's pieces produced in 
those times, we are assured by himself (and his brother unhesitatingly con- 
firms the statement) that no positive vice mingled in any of his loves, until 
after he had reached his twenty-third year. He has already told us, that 
his short residence " away from liome" at Kirkoswald's, where he mixed 
in the society of seafaring men and smugglers, produced an unfavourable 
alteration on some of his habits; but in 1781-2 he spent six months at 
Irvine ; and it is from this period that his brother dates a serious change. 

" As his numerous connexions," says Gilbert, " were governed by the 
strictest rules of virtue and modesty, (from which he never deviated till 
his twenty-third year), he became anxious to be in a situation to marry. 
This was not likely to be the case while he remained a farmer, as the stock- 
ing of a farm required a sum of money he saw no probability of being mas- 
ter of for a great wliile. He and I had for several years taken land of our 
father, for the purpose of raising flax on our own account ; and in the 
course of selling it, Robert began to think of turning flax- dresser, both as 
being suitable to his grand view of settling in life, and as subservient to 
the flax-raising." Burns, accordingly, went to a half-brother of his mo- 
ther's, by name Peacock, a flax-dresser in Irvine, with the view of learn- 
ing this new trade, and for some time he applied himself diligently ; but 
misfortune after misfortune attended him. The shop accidentally caught 
fire during the carousal of a new-j^ear's-day's morning, and Robert " was 
left, like a true poet, not worth a sixpence." — " I was obliged," says he, 
" to give up this scheme ; the clouds of misfortune were gathering thick 
round my father's head ; and what was worst of all, he was visibly far gone 
in a consumption ; and, to crown my distresses, a belle fillc whom I adored, 
and who had pledged her soul to meet me in the held of matrimony, jilted 
me, with peculiar circumstances of mortification. The finishing evil that 
brought up the rear of this infernal file, was, my constitutional melancholy 
being increased to such a degree, that for three months 1 was in a state 
of mind scarcely to be envied by the hopeless wretches who have got 
their mittimus — Depart from me, ye cursed." The following letter, addressed 
by Burns to his fatlier, three days before the unfortunate fire took place, 
will show abundantly that the gloom of his spirits had little need of that 
aggravation. When we consider by whom, to whom, and under what cir- 
cumstances, it was written, the letter is every way a remarkable one >— 

"Honoured Sir, 
" I HAVE purposely delayed writing, in the hope that I should have 
the pleasure of seeing you on New-year's day ; but work comes so hard 
upon us, that I do not choose to be absent on that account, as well as for 
some other little reasons, which I shall tell you at meeting. My health is 
nearly the same as when you were here, only my sleep is a little sounder; 
and, on the whole, I am rather better than otherwise, though I mend by 
very islow degrees. The weakness of my nerves has so debilitated my 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xv 

mind, that I dare neither review'past wants, nor look forward into futurity ; 
for the least anxiety or perturbation in my breast produces most unhappy 
effects on my whole frame. Sometimes, indeed, when for an hour or two 
my spirits are alightened, I glimmer a little into futurity ; but my principal, 
and indeed my only pleasurable employment, is looking backwards and for- 
wards in a moral and religious way. I am quite transported at the thought, 
that ere long, perhaps very soon, I shall bid an eternal adieu to all the 
pains and uneasiness, and disquietudes of this weary life ; for I assure you 
I am heartily tired of it ; and, if I do not very much deceive myseLT, I 
could contentedly and gladly resign it. 

' The soul, uneasy, and confined at home, 
Rests and expatiates in a life to come.' 

" It is for this reason I am more pleased with the 15th, l6th, and 17th 
verses of the 7th chapter of Revelations, than with any ten times as many 
verses in the whole Bible, and would not exchange the noble enthusiasm 
with which they inspire me for all that this world has to offer. As for this 
world, I despair of ever making a figure in it. I am not formed for the 
bustle of the busy, nor the flutter of the gay. 1 shall never again be cap- 
able of entering into such scenes. Indeed, I am altogether unconcerned 
at the thoughts of this Hfe. I foresee that poverty and obscurity probably 
await me, and I am in some measure prepared, and daily preparing, to meet 
them. I have but just time and paper to return you my grateful thanks 
for the lessons of virtue and piety you have given me, which were too much 
neglected at the time of giving them, but which I hope have been remem- 
bered ere it is yet too late. Present my dutiful respects to my mother, 
and my compliments to Mr. and Mrs. Muir; and, with wishing you a 
merry New-year's-day, I shall conclude. 

" I am, honoured Sir, your dutiful son, " 

" Robert Burns." 

" P. S — My meal is nearly out ; but I am going to borrow, till I get 
more." 

[The verses of Scripture here alluded to, are as follows :— 

" 15. Therefore are the}' before the throne of God, and serve him day and night in his tem« 
pie ; and he that sitteth on the throne shall dwell among them. 

" 16. They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more ; neither shall the sun light Oil 
them, nor any heat. 

" 17. For the Lamb that is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and shall lead them 
unto living fountains of waters ; and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes." 

*' This letter," says Dr. Currie, " written several years before the publi- 
cation of his Poems, when his name was as obscure as his condition was 
humble, displays the philosophic melancholy which so generally forms the 
poetical temperament, and that buoyant and ambitious spirit which indi- 
cates a mind conscious of its strength. At Irvine, Bums at this time pos- 
sessed a single room for his lodgings, rented, perhaps, at the rate of a shil- 
ling a-week. Ho passed his days in constant labour as a flax-dresser, and 
his food consisted chiefly of oat-meal, sent to him from his father's family. 
The store of this humble, though wholesome nutriment, it appears, was 
nearly exhausted, and he was about to borrow till he should obtain a sup- 
ply. Yet even in this situation, his active imagination had formed to itself 
pictures of eminence and distinction. His despair of making a figure in 



XVI LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

tlie world, shows how ardently he wished for honourable fame ; and his 
contempt of life, founded on this despair, is the genuine expression of a 
youthful and generous mind. In such a state of reflection, and of suffering, 
the imagination of Burns naturally passed the dark boundaries of our earthly 
horizon, and rested on those beautiful representations of a better world, 
where there is neither thirst, nor hunger, nor sorrow, and where happiness 
shall be in proportion to the capacity of happiness." — Life, p. 102. 

Unhappily for himself and for the world, it was not always in the recol- 
lections of his virtuous home and the study of his Bible, that Burns sought 
for consolation amidst the heavy distresses which " his youth was heir to." 
Irvine is a small sea-port ; and here, as at Kirkoswald's, the adventurous 
spirits of a snmggling coast, with all their jovial habits, were to be met 
with in abundance. " He contracted some acquaintance," says Gilbert, 
" of a freer nianncr of thinking and living than he had been used to, whose 
society prepared him for overleaping the bounds of rigid virtue, which had 
hitherto restrained him." 

One of the most intimate companions of Burns, while he remained at 
Irvine, seems to have been David Sillar, to whom the Epistle to Da- 
vie, a Brother Poet, was subsequently addressed. Sillar was at this time a 
poor schoolmaster in Irvine, enjoying considerable reputation as a writer 
of local verses : and, according to all accounts, extremely jovial in his life 
and conversation. 

Burns himself thus sums up the results of his residence at Irvine : — 
«< From this adventure I learned something of a town life ; but the princi- 
pal thing which gave my mind a turn, was a friendship I formed with a 
young fellow, a very noble character, but a hapless son of misfortune. He 
was the son of a simple mechanic ; but a great man in the neighbourhood, 
taking him under his patronage, gave him a genteel education, with t; view 
of bettering his situation in hfe. The patron dying just as he was ready to 
launch out into the world, the poor fellow in despair went to sea ; where, 
after a variety of good and ill fortune, a little before I was acquainted with 
him, he had been set ashore by an American privateer, on the wild coast of 

Connaught, stripped of every thing His mind was fraught with 

independence, magnanimity, and every manly virtue. I loved and admir- 
ed him to a degree of enthusiasm, and of course strove to imitate him. In 
some measure 1 succeeded ; I had pride before, but he taught it to flow in 
proper channels. His knowledge of the world was vastly superior to mine ; 
and I was all attention to learn. He was the only man 1 ever saw who was 
a greater fool tluui myself, where women was the presiding star ; but he 
spoke of illicit love with the levity of a sailor — which hitherto I had regard- 
ed with horror. Here his fricuclsJiipdldme a mischief." Professor Walker, 
when preparing to write his Sketch oftlie Poet's life, was informed by an 
aged inhabitant of Irvine, that Burns's chief delight while there was in dis- 
cussing religious topics, particularly in those circles which usually gather 
in a Scotch churchyard alter service. 7'he senior added, that Bums com- 
monly took the high Calvinistic side in such debates; and concluded with 
a boast, that " the lad" was indebted to himself in a great measure for 
tlie gradual adoption of " more liberid opinions." It was during the same 
period, tliat the poet was first initiated in the mysteries of free masonry, 
" which was," says his brother, " his first introduction to the life of a boon 
companion." He was introduced to St. Mary's Lodge of Tarbolton by 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xvli 

John Ranken, a very dissipated man of considerable talents, to whom he 
afterwards indited a poetical epistle, which' will be noticed in its place. 

" Rhyme," Burns says, " I had given up ;" (on going to Irvine) " but 
meeting with Ferguson's Scottish Poems, I strung anew my wildly sound- 
ing lyre with emulating vigour." Neither flax-dressing nor the tavern 
could keep him long from his proper vocation. But it was probably this 
accidental meeting with Ferguson, that in a great measure finally deter- 
mined the Scottish character of Burns's poetry ; and indeed, but for the 
lasting sense of this obligation, and some natural sympathy with the personal 
misfortunes of Ferguson's life, it would be difficult to account for the very 
high terms in which Burns always mentions his productions. 

Shortly before Burns wont to Irvine, he, his brother Gilbert, and some 
seven or eight young men besides, all of the parish of Tarbolton, had form- 
ed themselves into a society, which they called the Bachelor's Club ; and 
which met one evening in every month for the purposes of mutual enter- 
tainment and improvement. That their cups were but modestly filled is 
evident ; for the rules of the club did not permit any member to spend 
more than threepence at a sitting. A question was announced for dis- 
cussion at the close of each meeting; and at the next they came prepared 
to deliver their sentiments upon the subject-matter thus proposed. Burns 
drew up the regulations, and evidently v.-as the principal person. He in- 
troduced his friend Sillar during his stay at Irvine, and the meetings ap- 
pear to have continued as long as the family remained in Tarbolton. Of 
the sort of questions discussed, we may form some notion from the minute 
of one evening, still extant in Burns's hand-writing. — Question foii Hal- 
loween, (Nov. II), 1780. — " Suppose a young man, bed a farmer, hut 
without any fortune, has it in his porver to marry either of two women, the 07ie 
a girl of large fortune, Imt neither handsome in perso7i, nor agreeable in con- 
versation, hut who can manage the household affairs of a farm well enough ; 
the other of them a girl every ivay agreeable in 2^erso7i, conversation, and heluivi- 
ottr, hut without any fortune : xohich of them shall he choose ?" Burns, as 
may be guessed, took the imprudent side in this discussion. 

" On one solitary occasion," says he, " we resolved to meet at Tarbol- 
ton in July, on the race-night, and have a dance in honour of our society. 
Accordingly, we did meet, each one with a partner, and spent the evening 
in such innocence and merriment, such cheerfulness and good humour, that 
every brother will long remember it with delight." There can be no doubt 
that Burns would not have patronized this sober association so long, unless 
he had experienced at its assemblies the pleasure of a stimulated mind ; 
and as little, that to the habit of arranging his thoughts, and expressing 
them in somewhat of a formal shape, thus early cultivated, we ought to at- 
tribute much of that conversational skill w hicli, v/hcn he first mingled with 
the upper M'orld, was generally considered as tlie most remarkable of all Jiis 

personal accomplishments Burns's nssocintcs of the Bachelor's Club, 

must have been young men possessed of talents and acquirements, other- 
wise such minds as his and (Gilbert's could not have j^ersisted in measuring 
themselves against theirs ; and we may believe that the periodical display 
of the poet's own vigour and resources, at these club-meetings, and (more 
frequently than his brother approved) at the Free Mason Lodges of Irvine 
and Tarbolton, extended his rural reputation ; and, by degrees, prepared 
persons not immediately included in his own circle, for the extraordinary 
impression which his poetical efforts were ere long to create all over '' thQ 
Carrigk border." 



II 



xviii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

David Sillar gives an account of the beginning of his own acquaintance 
with Burns, and introduction into this Bachelor's Club, which will always be 

read with much interest " Mr. Robert Burns was some time in the parish 

of Tarbolton prior to my acquaintance with him. His social disposition 
easily procured him acquaintance ; but a certain satirical seasoning with 
which he and all poetical geniuses are in some degree influenced, while it 
set the rustic circle in a roar, was not unaccompanied with its kindred at- 
tendant, suspicious fear. I recollect hearing his neighbours observe, he had 
a great deal to say for himself, and that they suspected his principles. He 
wore the only tied hair in the pai-ish ; and in the church, his plaid, which 
was of a particular colour, I think fillemot, he \vTapped in a particular 
manner round his shoulders. These surmises, and his exterior, had such 
a magnetical influence on my curiosity, as made me particularly solicitous 
of his acquaintance. Whether my acquaintance with Gilbert was casual! 
or premeditated, I am not now certain. By him I was introduced, not 
only to his brother, but to the whole of that family, where, in a short time, 
I became a frequent, and I believe, not unwelcome visitant. After the 
commencement of my acquaintance with the bard, we frequently met 
upon Sundays at church, when, between sermons, instead of going withi 
our friends or lasses to the inn, we often took a walk in the fields. In these* 
walks, I have frequently been struck with his facility in addressing the fair 
sex ; and many times, when I have been bashfully anxious how to express 
myself, he would have entered into conversation with them with the great- 
est ease and freedom ; and it was generally a death-blow to our conversa- 
tion, however agreeable, to meet a female acquaintance. Some of the few 
opportunities of a noontide walk that a country life allows her laborious 
sons, he spent on the banks of the river, or in the woods, in the neigh- 
bourhood of Stair, a situation peculiarly adapted to the genius of a rural 
bard. Some book (generally one of those mentioned in his letter to Mr. 
Murdoch) he always carried and read, when not otherwise employed. It 
was likewise his custom to read at table. In one of my visits to Lochlea, 
in time of a sowen supper, he was so intent on reading, I think Tristram 
Shandy, that his spoon falling out of his hand, made him exclaim, in a 
tone scarcely imitable, ' Alas, poor Yorick !* Such was Burns, and such 
were his associates, when, in May 1781, I was admitted a member of 
the Bachelor's Club." 

The misfortunes of William Burnes thickened apace, as has already been 
seen, and were approaching their crisis at the time when Robert came 
home from his flax-dressing experiment at Irvine. The good old man 
died soon after ; and among other evils which he thus escaped, was an af- 
fliction that would, in his eyes, have been severe. The poet had not, as 
he confesses, come unscathed out of the society of those persons of " li- 
beral opinions" with whom he consorted in Irvine ; and he expressly 
attributes to their lessons, the scrape into which he fell soon after " he 
put his hand to plough again." He was compelled, according to the then 
all but universal custom of rural parishes in Scotland, to do penance in 
church, before the congregation, in consequence of the birth of an illegi- 
timate child ; and whatever may be thought of the propriety of such ex- 
hibitions, there can be no difference of opinion as to the culpable levity 
with which he describes the nature of his offence, and the still more re- 
prehensible bitterness with which, in his Epistle to Ranken, he inveighs 
against the clergyman, who, in rebuking him, only performed what was 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xlx 

then a regular part of the clerical duty, and a part of it that could never 
have been at all agreeable to the worthy man whom he satirizes under 
the appellation of " Daddie Auld." The Poet's Welcome to an Illegitimate 
Child was composed on the same occasion — a piece in which some very 
manly feelings are expressed, along with others which can give no one 
pleasure to contemplate. There is a song in honour of the same occasion, 
or a similar one about the same period, The rantin Dog the Daddie ot, — 
which exhibits the poet as glorying, and only glorying in his shame. 

When I consider his tender affection for the surviving members of his 
own family, and the reverence with which he ever regarded the memory of 
the father whom he had so recently buried, I cannot believe that Burns has 
thought fit to record in verse all the feelings which this exposure excited 
in his bosom. *' To wave (in his own language) the quantum of the sin," 
he who, two years afterwards, wrote The Cottar s Saturday Night, had not, 
we may be sure, hardened his heart to the thought of bringing additional 
sorrow and unexpected shame to the fireside of a widowed mother. But 
his false pride recoiled from letting his jovial associates guess how little he 
was able to drown the whispers of the still small voice ; and the fermenting 
bitterness of a mind ill at ease within itself, escaped (as may be too often 
traced in the history of satirists) in the shape of angry, sarcasms against 
others, who, whatever their private errors might be, had at least done him 
no wrong. 

It is impossible not to smile at one item of consolation which Burns pro- 
poses to himself on this occasion : — 

" The mair they talk, Fm kend the letter ; 

E'en let them clash !" 

This is indeed a singular manifestation of *' the last infirmity of noble 
minds." 



CHAPTER II!. 



CoNTEKTs The Brothers, Robert and Gilbert, become tenants of Mougiel — Ttietr ineusanl 

labour and moderate habits — The farm cold and unfertile — J^ot prosperous — The Mutt 
anti-calvinistical — The poet thence involved deeply in local polemics, and charged with he- 
resy — Curious account of these disputes — Early poems prompted by them — Origin of and 
remarks upon the poet's principal pieces — Z,ove leads him far astray — A crisis— • The jail Otr 
the West Indies — The alternative. 



" The star that rules my luckless lot 
Has fated me the russet coat. 
And damn'd my fortune to tne groat ; 

But in reauit, 
Has bless*d me wi' a random sliol 

O' country wit." 

Thkee months before the death of William Burnes, Robert and Gilbert 
took the farm of Mossgiel, in the neighbouring parish of Mauchline, with 
the view of providing a shelter for their parents, in the storm which they 
had seen gradually thickening, and knew must soon burst ; and to this 
place the whole family removed on William's death. The farm consisted 
of 119 acres, and the rent was £90. " It was stocked by the property 
and individual savings of the whole family, (says Gilbert), and was a joint 
concern among us. Every member of the family was allowed ordinary 
wages for the labour he performed on the farm. My brother's allowance 
and mine was £7 per annum each ; and during the whole time this family 
concern lasted, which was four years, as well as during the preceding pe- 
riod at Lochlea, Robert's expenses never, in any one year, exceeded his 
slender income." 

" I entered on this fanri," says the poet, " with a full resolution, come, 
go, I will be ttnse. I read farming books, I calculated crops, I attended 
markets ; and, in short, in spite of the devil, and the world, and the flesh, 
I believe I should have been a wise man ; but the first year, from unfor- 
tunately buying bad seed, the second, from a late harvest, we lost half 
our crops. This overset all my wisdom, and I returned, like the dor/ to his 
vomit, and the sow tJiat teas washed to her wallottnng in the mire." 

** At the time that our poet took the resolution of becoming unse, he 
procured," says Gilbert, " a little book of blank paper, with the purpose, 
expressed on the first page, of making farming memorandums. These 
farming memorandums are curious enough," Gilbert slyly adds, " and a 
specimen may gratify the reader." — Specimens accordingly he gives ; as. 

" O why the deuce should I repine. 
And be an ill foreboder ? 
I'm twenty-three, and five foot nine,— . 
rU go and be » sodger," &c, 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. jqd 

" O leave novells, ye Mauchline belles, 

Ye're safer at your spinning wheel ; 
Such witching books are baited hooks 

For rakish rooks — like Rob fllossgiel- 
Your fine Tom Jones and Grandisons, 

They make your youthful fancies reel. 
They heat your veins, and fire your brains, 

And then ye're prey for Rob Mossgiel," &c. &c. 

The four years during which Burns resided on this cold and ungrateful 
farm of Mossgiel, were the most important of his life. It was then that 
his genius developed its highest energies ; on the works produced in these 
years his fame was first established, and must ever continue mainly to rest: 
it was then also that his personal character came out in all its brightest lights, 
aad in all but its darkest shadows ; and indeed from the commencement 
of this period, the history of the man may be traced, step by step, in his 
own immortal writings. Burns now began to know that nature had meant 
him for a poet ; and diligently, though as yet in secret, he laboured in 
what he felt to bo his destined vocation. Gilbert continued for some time 
to be his chief, often indeed his only confidant ; and any thing more inte- 
resting and delightful than this excellent mans account of the manner in 
which the poems included in the first of his brother's publications were 
composed, is certainly not to be found in the annals of literary history. 

The reader has already seen, that long before the earliest of them was 
known beyond the domestic circle, the strength of Burns's understanding, 
and the keenness of his wit, as displayed in his ordinary conversation, and 
more particularly at masonic meetings and debating clubs, (of M'hich he 
ibrmed one in Mauchline, on the Tarbolton model, immediately on his re- 
moval to Mossgiel), had made his name known to some considerable extent 
in the country about Tarbolton, Mauchline, and Irvine ; and this prepared 
the way for his poetry. Professor Walker gives an anecdote on this head, 
which nmst not be omitted. Burns already numbered several clergymen 
among his acquaintances. One of these gentlemen told the Professor, that 
after entering on the clerical profession, he had repeatedly met Burns in 
company, " where," said he, " the acuteness and originality displayed by 
liim, the depth of his discernment, the force of his expressions, and the 
authoritative energy of his understanding, had created a sense of his 
power, of the extent of which I was unconscious, till it was revealed to 
me by accident. On the occasiiin of ni}- second appearance in the pulpit, 
I came w^ith an assured and tranquil mind, and though a few persons of 
education were present, advanced some length in the service with my con- 
fidence and self-possession unimpaired ; but when I saw Burns, who was 
of a different parish, unexpectedly enter the church, I was affected with 
a tremor and embarrassment, whicli suddenly apprised me of the impression 
which my mind, unknown to itself, liad previously received," The Pro- 
fessor adds, that the person \\ ho had thus unconsciously been measuring 
the stature of the intellectual giant, was not only a man of good talents 
and education, but " remarkable for a more than ordinary portion of con • 
stitutional firmness." 

Every Scotch peasant who makes any pretension to understanding, is a 
theological critic — and Burns, no doubt, had long ere this time distinguish- 
ed himself considerably among those hard-headed groups that may usually 
be seen gathered together in the church-yard after the sermon is over. It 
may be guessed that from the time of his residence at Irvine, his stric- 



xxii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

tures were too often delivered in no reverend vein. " Polemical divinity," 
says he to Dr. Moore, in 1787, " about this time, was putting the coun- 
try half mad, and I, ambitious of shining in conversation-parties on Sun- 
days, at funerals. Sec, used to puzzle Calvinism with so much heat and in- 
discretion, that I raised a hue-and-cry of heresy against me, which has not 
ceased to this hour." 

To understand Burns's situation at this time, at once patronized by a 
number of clergymen, and attended with " a hue-and-cry of heresy," we 
must remember his own words, " that j)olemical divinity was putting the 
country hall" mad." Of both the two parties which, ever since the revolu- 
tion of 1688, have pretty equally divided the Church of Scotland, it so 
happened that some of the most zealous and conspicuous leaders and par- 
tizans were thus opposed to each other, in constant ^^■arfarc, in this parti- 
cular district ; and their feuds being of course taken up among their con- 
gregations, and spleen and prejudice at work, even more furiously in the 
cottage than in t/ie ma7ise, he who, to the annoyance of the one set of belli- 
gerents, could talk like Burns, might count pretty surely, with whatever 
alloy his wit happened to be mingled, on the applause and countenance of 
the enemy. And it is needless to add, they were the less scrupulous sect 
of the two that enjoyed the co-operation, such as it was then, and far more 
important, as in the sequel it came to be, of our poet. 

William Barnes, as we have already seen, though a most exemplary and 
devout man, entertained opinions very different from those which common- 
ly obtained among the rigid Calvanists of his district. The worthy and 
pious old man himself, therefore, had not improbably infused into his son's 
mind its first prejudice against these persons. The jovial spirits with whom 
Burns associated at Irvme, and afterwards, were of course habitual deridcrs 
of the manners, as well as the tenets of the 

" Orthodox, orthodox, wha believe in John Knox." 

We have already observed the effect of the young poet's own first collision 
with the ruling powers of presbyterian discipline ; but it was in the very 
act of settling at Mossgiel that Burns formed the connexion, which, more 
than any circumstance besides, influenced him as to tlie matter now in 
question. The farm belonged to the estate of the Earl of Loudoun, but 
the brothers held it on a sub-lease from Mr. Gavin Hamilton, writer (i. e. 
attorney) in Mauchline, a man, by every account, of engaging manners, 
open, kind, generous, and high-spirited, between whom and Robert Burns, 
a close and intimate friendship was ere long formed. Just about this tin)e 
it happened that Hamilton was at open feud with Mr. Auld, the minister 
of Mauchline, (the same who had already rebuked the poet), and the ruling 
ciders of the parish, in consequence of certain irregularities in his personal 
conduct and deportment, which, according to the usual strict notions ot 
kirk discipline, were considered as fairly demanding the vigorous interfer- 
ence of these authorities. The notice of this person, his own landlord, and, 
as it would seem, one of the principal inhabitants of the village of Maucli- 
line at the time, must, of course, have been very flattering to our polemical 
young farmer. He espoused Gavin Hamilton's quarrel warmly. Hamilton 
was naturally enough disposed to mix up his personal affair with the stand- 
ing controversies whereon Auld was at variance with a large and powerful 
body of his brother clergymen ; and by degrees Mr. Hamilton's ardent/;ro- 
ieffecikmc to be as vehemently interested in the church politics of Ayrshire, 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xxui 

as he could have been in politics of another order, had he happened to be 
a freeman of some open borough, and his patron a candidate lor the honour 
of representing it in St. Stephen's. Mr. Cromek has been severely criti- 
cised for some details of Mr. Gavin Hamilton's dissensions with his parish 
minister ; but perhaps it might have been well to limit the censure to the 
tone and spirit of the narrative, since there is no doubt that these petty 
squabbles had a large share in directing the early energies of Burns's po- 
etical talents. Even in the west of Scotland, such matters would hardly 
excite much notice now-a-days, but they were quite enough to produce a 
world of vexation and controversy forty years ago ; and the English reader to 
whom all such details are denied, will certainly never be able to compre- 
liend either the merits or the demerits of many of Burns's most remarkable 
productions. Since I have touched on this matter at all, I may as well 
add, that Hamilton's family, though professedly adhering to the Presbyte- 
rian Establishment, had always lain under a strong suspicion of Episcopa- 
lianism. Gavin's grandfather had been curate of Kirkoswald in the troubl- 
ed times that preceded the Revolution, and incurred great and lasting po- 
pular hatred,',- in consequence of being supposed to have had a principal 
hand in bringing a thousand of the Highland host into that region in 1677-8. 
The district was commonly said not to have entirely recovered the effects 
of that savage visitation in less than a hundred years ; and the descendants 
and representatives of the Covenanters, whom the curate of Kirkoswald 
had the reputation at least of persecuting, were commonly supposed to re- 
gard with any thing rather than ready good-will, his grandson, the witty 
writer of Mauchline. A well-nursed prejudice of this kind M'as likely 
enough to be met by counter-spleen, and such seems to have been the truth 
of the case. The lapse of another generation has sufficed to wipe out every 
trace of feuds, that were ■ still abundantly discernible, in the days when 
Ayrshire first began to ring with the equally zealous applause and vituper- 
ation of, — 

" Poet Burns, 
And his priest-skelping turns." 

It is impossible to look back now to the civil war, which then raged 
among the churchmen of the west of Scotland, without confessing, that on 
either side there was much to regret, and not a little to blame. Proud 
and haughty spirits were unfortunately opposed to each other ; and in the 
superabundant display of zeal as to doctrinal points, neither party seems 
to have mingled much of the charity of the Christian temper. The whole 
exhibition was unlovely — the spectacle of such indecent violence among 
the leading Ecclesiastics of the district, acted most unfavourably on many 
men's minds — and no one can doubt that in the unsettled state of Robert 
Burns's principles, the effect must have been powerful as to him. 

Macgill and Dalrymple, the two ministers of the town of Ayr, had long 
been suspected of entertaining heterodox opinions on several points, par- 
ticularly the doctrine of original sin, and even of the Trinity ; and the for- 
mer at length published an Essay, which was considered as demanding 
the notice of the Church-courts. More than a year was spent m the dis- 
cussions which arose out of this ; and at last Dr. Macgill was fain to ac- 
knowledge his errors, and promise that he would take an early opportunity 
of apologizing for them to his own congregation from the pulpit — which 
promise, however, he never performed. The gentry of the country took. 



3ixiv LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

for the most part, the side of MacglU, who was a man of cold unpopular 
manners, but of unrcproached moral character, and possessed of some ac- 
complishments, though certainly not of distinguished talents. The bulk 
of the lower orders espoused, with far more fervid zeal, the cause of those 
who conducted tiic prosecution against this erring doctor. Gavin Hamil- 
ton, and all persons of his stamp, were of course on the side of Macgill — 
Auld, and the Mauchline elders, were his enemies. Mr. Robert Aiken, a 
writer in Ayr, a man of remarkable talents, particularly in public speaking, 
had the principal management of IMacgill's cause before the Presbytery, 
and, I believe, also before the Synod. He was an intimate friend of Ha- 
milton, and through him had about this time formed an acquaintance, which 
soon ripened into a warm friendsliip, with Burns. Burns, therefore, was 
from the beginning a zealous, as in the end he was perliaps the most cllective 
partizan, of the side on wliich Aiken had staked so much of his reputation. 
Macgill, Dalrymple, and their brethren, suspected, with more or less jus- 
tice, of leaning to heterodox opinions, ai-e the Neio Light pastors of his 
earliest satires. The prominent antagonists of these men, and chosen. cham- 
pions of the Auld Light, in Ayrshire, it Hiust now be admitted on all hands, 
presented, in manj'^ particulars of personal conduct and demeanour, as broad 
a mark as ever tempted tlie shafts of a satirist. These men prided them- 
selves on being the legitimate and undegenerate descendants and repre- 
sentatives of the haughty Puritans, who chiefly conducted the overthrow 
of Popery in Scotland, and who ruled for a time, and would fain have con- 
tinued to rule, over both king and people, with a more tyrannical dominion 
than ever the Catholic priesthood itself had been able to exercise amidst 
that high-spirited nation. With the horrors of the Papal system for ever 
in their mouths, these men Avere in fact as bigoted monks, and almost as 
relentless inquisitors in their hearts, as ever v.ore cowl and cord — austere 
and ungracious of aspect, coarse and repulsive of address and manners — 
very Pharisees as to the lesser matters of the law, and many of them, to all 
outward appearance at least, ovenloAving with pharisaical self-conceit, as 
well as monastic bile. That admirable qualities lay concealed under this 
ungainly exterior, and mingled with and checked the vrorst of these gloomy 
passions, no candid man will permit himself to doubt or suspect for a mo- 
ment ; and that Burns has grossly overcharged his portraits of them, deep- 
ening shadows that were of themselves sufficiently dark, and excluding al- 
together those brighter, and perhaps softer, traits of character, which re- 
deemed the originals with'n the sympathies of many of the worthiest and 
best of men, seems equally clear. Their bitterest enemies dared not at 
least to bring against them, even when the feud was at its height of fervour, 
charges of that heinous sort, which they fearlessly, and I fear justly, pre- 
ferred against their antagonists. N,o one ever accused them of signing the 
Articles, administering the sacraments, and eating the bread of a Church, 
whose fundamental doctrines they disbelieved, and, by insinuation at least, 
disavowed. 

The law of Church-patronage was another subject on which controversy 
ran high and furious in the district at the same period ; the actual condi- 
tion of things on this head being upheld by all the men of the New Light, 
and cor.dcmiied as equally at variance with the precepts of the gospel, and 
the rights of freemen, by not a icw of the other party, and, in particulai-, 
by certain conspicuous zealots in the immediate neighbourhood of Burns. 
While this warlare raged, there broke out an intestine discord within the 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. stxv 

camp of the faction which he loved not. Two of the foremost leaders of 
the Auld Light party quarrelled about a question of parish-boundarieg ; 
the matter was taken up in the Presbytery of Kilmarnock, and there, in 
the open court, to which the announcement of the discussion had drawn a 
multitude of the country people, and Burns among the rest, the reverend 
divines, hitherto sworn friends and associates, lost all command of temper, 
and abused each other coram populo, with a fiery virulence of personal in- 
vective, such as has long been banished from all popular assemblies, where- 
in the laws of courtesy are enforced by tliose of a certain unwritten code. 
" The first of my poetic offspring that saw the light," says Burns, *' was 
a burlesque lamentation on a quarrel between tv.o reverend Calvinists, both 
of them dramatis persona; in my HoIi/ Fair. 1 had a notion myself, that 
the piece had some merit ; but to prevent the worst, I gave a copy of it to 
a friend who was very fond of such things, and told him that I could not 
guess who was the author of it, but that I thought it pretty clever. With 
a certain description of the clergy, as well as laity, it met with a roar of 
applause." This was T/ie Holy Tuilzie, or Ttca Herds. The two herds, 
or pastors, were Mr. Moodie, minister of Iliccartoun, and that favourite vic- 
tim of Burns's, John RusselJ, then minister of Kilmarnock, and afterwards 

of Stirling " From this time," Burns says, " I began to be known in the 

country as a maker of rhymes Holy Willies Prayer next made its 

appearance, and alarmed the kirk-session so much, that they held several 
meetings to look over their spiritual artillery, and see if any of it might 

be pointed against profane rhymers Burns's reverend editor, Mr. Paul, 

presents Holy Willies Prayer at full length, although not inserted in Dr. 
Currie's edition, and calls on the friends of religion to bless the memory of 
the poet who took such a judicious method of " leading the liberal mind to 
a rational view of the nature of prayer." — " This," says that bold com- 
mentator, " was not only the prayer of Holy Willie, but it is merely the 
metrical version of every prayer that is offered up by those who call them- 
selves the pure reformed church of Scotland. In the course of his read- 
ing and polemical warfare, Burns embraced and defended the opinions of 
Taylor of Norwich, Macgill, and that school of Divines. He could not 
reconcile his mind to that picture of the Being, whose very essence is 
love, which is drawn by the high Calvinists or the representatives of the 
Covenanters — namely, that he is disposed to grant salvation to none but 
a few of their sect ; that the whole Pagan world, the disciples of Maho- 
met, the Roman Catholics, the Lutherans, and even the Calvinists who 
differ from them in certain tenets, m.ust, like Korah, Dathan and Abiram, 
descend to the pit of perdition, man. woman, and child, without the possi- 
bility of escape ; but such are the identical doctrines of the Cameronians 
of the present day, and such was Koly Willie's style of prayer. The hy- 
pocrisy and dishonesty of the man, v.ho was at the time a reputed Saint, 
were perceived by tlie discerning penetration of Burns, and to expose 
them he considered his dutj'. The terrible view of the Deity exhibited 
in that able production is precisely the same view which is given of him, 
in different words, by many devout preachers at present. They inculcate, 
that the greatest sinner is the greatest favourite of heaven — that a reform- 
ed bawd is more acceptable to the Almighty than a pure virgin, who has 
hardly ever transgressed even in thought — that the lost sheep alone will be 
saved, and that the ninety-and-nine out of the hundred will be left in the 
wilderness, to perish without mercy— tliat the Saviour of the world lovea 

6 



xxvi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

the elect, not from any lovely qualities which they possess, for they are 
hateful in his sight, but " he loves them because he loves them." Such 
are the sentiments which are breathed by those who are denominated High 
Calvinists, and from which the soul of a poet •who loves mankind, and who 
has not studied the system in all its bearings, recoils with horror. . . . The 
gloomy forbidding representation which they give of the Supreme Being, 
has a tendency to produce insanity, and lead to suicide." * 

This Reverend author may be considered as expressing in the above, 
and in other passages of a similar tendency, the sentiments with which 
even the most audacious of Burns's anti-calvinistic satires were received 
among the Ayrshire divines of the New Light ; that performances so blas- 
phemous should have been, not only pardoned, but applauded by minis- 
ters of religion, is a singular circumstance, which may go I'ar to make the 
reader comprehend the exaggerated state of party feeling in Burns's native 
county, at the period when lie first appealed to the public ear : nor is it 
fair to pronounce sentence upon the young and reckless satirist, without tak- 
ing into consideration the undeniable fact — that in his worst offences of 
this kind, he was encouraged and abetted by those, who, to say nothing 
more about their professional character and authority, were almost the 
only persons of liberal education whose society he had any opportunity of 
approaching at the period in question. Had Burns received, at this time, 
from his clerical friends and patrons, such advice as was tendered, when 
rather too late, by a layman who was as far from bigotry on religious sub- 
jects as any man in the world, this great genius might have made his first 
approaches to the public notice in a very different character. — " Let your 
bright talents," — (thus wrote the excellent John Ramsay of Ochtertyre, in 
October 1787), — " Let those bright talents which the Almighty has be- 
stowed on you, be henceforth employed to the noble purpose of supporting 
the cause of truth and virtue. An imagination so varied and forcible as 
yours, may do this in many different modes ; nor is it necessary to be al- 
ways serious, which you have been to good purpose ; good morals may be 
recommended in a comedy, or even in a song. Great allowances are due 
to the heat and inexperience of youth ; — and few poets can boast, like 
Thomson, of never having written a line, which, dying, they would wish to 
blot. In particular, I wish you to keep clear of the thorny walks of satire, 
which makes a man an hundred enemies for one friend, and is doubly dan- 
gerous when one is supposed to extend the slips and weaknesses of indi- 
viduals to tlieir sect or party. About modes of faith, sei'ious and excellent 
men have always differed ; and there are certain curious questions, which 
may afford scope to men of metaphysical heads, but seldom mend the 
heart or temper. Whilst these points are beyond human ken, it is suffi- 
cient that all our sects concur in their views of morals. You will forgive 
me for these hints." 

It is amusing to observe how soon even really Bucolic bards learn the 
tricks of their trade : Burns knew already what lustre a compliment gains 
from being set in sarcasm, when he made Willie call for special notice of 

" Gaun Hamilton's deserts, .... 

He drinks, and swears, and plays at carts ; 
Yet has sae nwny taken' arts 

WV great and sma', 
Frae God's ain priests the people's hearts 

He steals awa," &c. 

• The Rev. Hamilton Paul's Life of Burns, pp, 40, 41, 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. jocvn 

Nor is his other patron, Aiken, introduced with inferior skill, as haring 
merited Willie's most fervent execration by his " glib-tongued" defence of 
the heterodox doctor of Ayr : 

" Lord ! visit them wha did employ him. 
And for thy people's sake destroy 'em." 

Burns owed a compliment to this gentleman for a well-timed exercise of 
his elocutionary talents. " I never knew there was any merit in my poems," 
said he, " until Mr. Aitken read them into repute." 

Encouraged by the " roar of applause" which greeted these pieces, thus 
orally promulgated and recommended, he produced in succession various 
satires wherein the same set of persons were lashed ; as The Ordination; 
The lurk's Alarm, &c. Sec. ; and last, and best undoubtedly, The Holy 
Fair, in which, unlike the others that have been mentioned, satire keeps 
its own place, and is subservient to the poetry of Burns. This was, in- 
deed, an extraordinary performance ; no partizan of any sect could whisper 
that malice had formed its principal inspiration, or that its chief attraction 
lay in the boldness with which individuals, entitled and accustomed to re- 
spect, were held up to ridicule : it was acknowledged amidst the sternest 
mutterings of wrath, that national manners were once more in the hands 
of a national poet. The Holy Fair, however, created admiration, not sur- 
prise, among the circle of domestic friends who had been admitted to watch 
the steps of his progress in an art of which, beyond that circle, little or 
nothing was heard until the youthful poet produced at length a satirical 
master-piece. It is not possible to reconcile the statements of Gilbert and 
others, as to some of the minutiae of the chronological history of Burns's 
previous performances ; but there can be no doubt, that although from 
choice or accident, his first provincial fame was that of a satirist, he had, 
some time before any of his philippics on the Auld Light Divines made 
their appearance, exhibited to those who enjoyed his personal confidence, 
a range of imaginative power hardly inferior to what the Holy Fair itself dis- 
plays ; and, at least, such a rapidly improving skill in poetical language 
and versification, as must have prepared them for witnessing, without won- 
der, even the most perfect specimens of his art. Gilbert says, that " among 
tlie earliest of his poems," was the Epistle to Davie, {i. e. Mr. David Sillar), 
and Mr. Walker believes that this was written very soon after the death of 
William Burnes. This piece is in the very intricate and difficult measure 
of the Cherry and the Slae ; and, on the whole, the poet moves with ease 
and grace in his very unnecessary trammels ; but young poets are careless 
beforehand of difficulties which would startle the experienced ; and great 
poets may overcome any difficulties if they once grapple with them ; so 
that I should rather ground my distrust of Gilbert's statement, if it must 
be literally taken, on the celebration of Jean, with which the epistle ter- 
minates : and, after all, she is celebrated in the concluding stanzas, which 
may have been added some time after the first draught. The gloomy cir- 
cumstances of the poet's personal condition, as described in this piece, 
were common, it cannot be doubted, to all the years of his youthful his- 
tory ; so that no particular date is to be founded upon these ; and if this 
was the first, certainly it was not the last occasion, on which Burns ex- 
ercised his fancy in the colouring of the very worst issue that could attend 
a life of unsuccessful toil. But Gilbert's recollections, however on trivial 
points inaccurate, will always be more interesting than any thing that could 



xxviii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

be put ill their place. " Robert," says he, " often composed without any 
Tegular plun. When any thing made a strong impression on his mind, so 
as to rouse it to poetic exertion, he would give way to the impulse, and 
embody the thought in rhyme. If he hit on two or three stanzas to please 
him, he would then think of proper introductory, connecting, and conclud- 
ing stanzas ; hence the middle of a poem was often first produced. It was, 
I think, in summer 1784', when in the interval of harder labour, he and I 
were weeding in the garden (kail-yard), that he repeated to me the prin- 
cipal part of his epistle (to Davie). I believe the first idea of Robert's 
becoming an author was started on this occasion. I was nmch pleased 
with the epistle, and said to him I was of opinion it would bear being 
printed, and that it would be well received by people of taste ; that I 
thought it at least equal, if not superior, to many of Allan Ramsay's epis- 
tles, and that the merit of these, and nmch other Scotch poetry, seemed 
to consist principally in the knack of tlie expression — but here, there was 
a 8trai:i of interesting sentiment, and the Scotticism of the language scarce- 
ly seemed affected, but a[)peared to be the natural language of the poet ; 
that, besides, there was certainly some novelty in a poet pointing out the 
consolations that wei-e in store for him Vihen he should go a-begging. Ro- 
bert seemed very well pleased with m.y criticism, and he talked of sending 
it to some magazine ; but as tbis plan afforded no opportunity of knowing 
how it would take, the idea was dropped. It was, I think, in the winter 
following, as we were going together with carts for coal to the family, (and 
I could yet point out the particular spot), that the author first repeated to 
me the Address to the Ddl. Tlic curious idea of such an address was sug- 
gested to him, by running over in his mind the many ludicrous accounts 
and representations we have, from various quarters, of this august person- 
age. Death and Doctor Hornbook, tliough not published in the Kilmar- 
nock edition, was produced early in the year 1785, The schoolmaster of 
Tarbolton parish, to eke up the scanty subssitence allowed to that useful 
class of men, had set up a shop of grocery goods. Having accidentally 
fallen in with some medical books, and become most hobby-horsically at- 
tached to the study of medicine, he had added the sale of a iaw medi- 
cines to his little trade. He had got a shop-bill jirinted, at the bottom of 
which, overlooking his own incapacity, he had advertised, that " Advice 
would be given in common disorders at the shop gratis." Robert was at a 
mason-meeting in Tarbolton, when the Dominie unfortunately made too 
ostentatious a display of his medical skill. As he parted in the evening 
from this mixture of pedantry and physic, at the place where he describes 
his meeting with Death, one of those lloating ideas of apparitions, he men- 
tions in his letter to Dr. Moore, crossed his mind ; this set him to work for 
the rest of the way home- These circumstances he related when he re- 
peated the verses to me next afternoon, as 1 was holding the plough, and 
he was letting the M'ater off the field beside me. The Epistle to John Lap' 
raik was produced exactly on the . occasion described by the author. He 
says in that poem. On Fasten-eenwe had a rockin. I believe he has omit- 
ted the word rocking in the glossary. It is a term derived from those 
primitive times, when the country-women employed their spare hours in 
spinning on the rock or distaff. 'I'his simple implement is a very portable 
one, and well fitted to the social inclination of meeting in a neighbour's 
house ; hence the phrase of goirtg a-rocking, or tuitk the rock. As the con- 
jiexion the phrase had with the implement was forgotten when the rock 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xxk 

gave place to the spinning-wheel, the phrase came to be used by both 
sexes on social occasions, and men talk of going with their rocks as well as 
women. It was at one of these roek'mgs at our house, when we had twelve 
or fifteen young people with their rocks, that Lapraik's song, beginning — 
*' When 1 upon thy bosom lean," was sung, and we were informed who was 
the author. Upon this Robert wrote his first epistle to Lapraik ; and his 
second in reply to his answer. The verses to the 3Iouse and Mountain 
Daisy were composed on the occasions mentioned, and while the author 
was holding the plough ; 1 could point out the particular spot where each 
was composed. Holding the plough v.as a favourite situation with Robert 
for poetic compositions, and some of his best verses were produced while 
he was at that exercise. Several of the poems were produced for the pur- 
pose of bringing forward some favourite sentiment of the author. He used 
to remark to me, that he could not well conceive a more mortifying picture 
of human life than a man seeking work. In casting about in his mind how 
this sentiment might be brought forward, the elegy, Man icas made to 
3fourn, was composed. Robert had frequently remarked to me, that he 
thought there was something peculiarly venerable in the phrase, " Let us 
worship God," used by a decent sober head of a family introducing family 
worship. To this sentiment of the author the world is indebted for The Cot- 
tar's Saturday Night. The hint of the plan, and title of the poem, were taken 
from Ferguson's Farmers Ingle. When Robert had not some pleasure 
in view, in which I was not thought fit to participate, we used frequently 
to walk together, when the weather was favourable, on the Sunday after- 
noons, (those precious breathing-times to the labouring part of the com- 
munity), and enjoyed such Sundays as would make one regret to see their 
number abridged. It was in one of these walks that I first had the pleasure 
of hearing the author repeat The Cottar s Saturday Night. I do not recollect 
to have read or heard any thing by which I was more highly electrified. 
The fifth and six stanzas, and the eighteenth, thrilled with peculiar ecstacy 
through my soul." 

The poems mentioned by Gilbert Burns in the above extract, are among 
the most popular of his brother's performances ; and thei*e may be a time 
for recurring to some of their peculiar merits as works of art. It may he 
mentioned here, that John Wilson, alias Dr. Hornbook, was not merely 
compelled to shut up shop as an ajiothecary, or druggist rather, by the sa- 
tire which bears his name ; but so irresistible was the tide of ridicule, that 
his pupils, one by one, deserted him, and he abandoned his Schoolcraft also. 
Removing to Glasgow, and turning himself successfully to commercial 
pursuits. Dr. Hornbook survived the local storm which he could not effec- 
tually withstand, and was often heard in his latter days, wlien waxing cheer- 
ftil and communicative over a bowl of punch, " in the Saltmarket," to bless 
the lucky hour in which the dominie of Tarbolton piovoked the castigation 
of Robert Burns. In those days the Scotch universities did not turn out 
doctors of physic by the hundred ; JMr. Wilson's was probably the only 
medicine-chest from which salts and senna were distributed for the benefit 
of a considerable circuit of parishes; and his advice, to say the least of the 
matter, was perhaps as good as could be had, for love or money, among the 
wise women who were the only rivals of his practice. The poem which 
drove him from Ayrshire was not, we may believe, either expected or de- 
signed to produce any such serious effect. Poor Hornbook and the poet 
were old acquaintances, and in some sort rival wits at the time in the ma- 
son lodge. 



XM LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

In Man vxu made to Mourn, whatever might be the casual Idea that set 
the poet to work, it is but too evident, that he wrote from the habitual 
feelings of his own bosom. The indignation with which he through life 
contemplated the inequality of human condition, and particularly, tlie con- 
trast between his own worldly circumstances and intellectual rank, was 
never more bitterly, nor more loftily expressed, than in some of those 
stanzas : — 

" See yonder poor o'erlabour'd wight, 
So abject, mean, and vile. 
Who begs a brother of the earth 

To give him leave to toil. 
And see his lordly fellow worm 
The poor petition spurn, 
I Unmindful, tho' a weeping wife 

And helpless offspring mourn. 

If I'm design'd yon lordlinc's slave — • 

By Nature's laws design'd — 
Why was an independent wish 

E'er planted in my mind ? 
If not, why am 1 subject to 

His cruelty and scorn, 
Or why has man the will and power 

To make his fellow mourn ?" 

" I had an old grand-uncle," says the poet, in one of his letters to Mrs. 
Dunlop, " with whom my mother lived in her girlish years ; the good old 
man, for such he was, was blind long ere he died ; during which time his 
highest enjoyment was to sit down and cry, while my mother woidd sing 
the simple old song of The Life and Age of 3Ian." 

In Man was made to Mour7i, Burns appears to have taken many hints 
from this ancient ballad, which begins thus : 

" Upon the sixteen hundred year of God, and fifty-three, 
Frae Christ was born, that bought us dear, as writings testifie ; 
On January, the sixteenth day, as I did lie alone, 
With many a sigh and sob did say— Ah ! man is made to moan !"• 

The Cottar's Saturday Night is, perhaps, of all Burns's pieces, the one 
whose exclusion from the collection, were such things possible now-a-days, 
would be the most injurious, if not to the genius, at least to the character, 
of the man. In spite of many feeble lines, and some heavy stapzas, it ap- 
pears to me, that even his genius would suffer more in estimation, by being 
contemplated in the absence of this poem, than of any other single perform- 
ance he has left us. Loftier flights he certainly has made, but in these he 
remained but a short while on the wing, and effort is too often perceptible ; 
here the motion is easy, gentle, placidly undulating. There is more of the 
conscious security of power, than in any other of his serious pieces of con- 
siderable length ; the whole has the appearance of coming in a full stream 
from the fountain of the heart — a stream that soothes the ear, and has no 
glare on the surface. 

It is delightful to turn from any of the pieces which present so great a 
genius as writhing under an inevitable burden, to this, where his buoyant 
energy seems not even to feel the pressure. The miseries of toil and pe- 
nury, who shall affect to treat as unreal ? Yet they shrunk to small dimen- 
sions in the presence of a spirit thus exalted at once, and softened, by the 
pieties of virgin love, filial reverence, and domestic devotion. 
• Cromek's Scottish Songs. 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xxxi 

The Cottars Saturday Night and the Holy Fair have been put in con- 
trast, and much marvel made that they should have sprung from the same 
source. " The annual celebration of the Sacrament of the Lord's Supper 
in the rural parishes of Scotland, has much in it," says the unfortunate 
Heron, " of those old popish festivals, in Avhich superstition, traffic, and 
amusement, used to be strangely intermingled. Burns saw and seized in 
it one of the happiest of all subjects to afford scope for the display of that 
strong and piercing sagacity, by which he could almost intuitively distin- 
guish the reasonable from the absurd, and the becoming from the ridiculous ; 
of that picturesque power of fency which enabled him to represent scenes, 
and persons, and groups, and looks, and attitudes, and gestures, in a manner 
almost as lively and impressive, even in words, as if all the artifices and ener- 
gies of the pencil had been employed ; of that knowledge which he had ne- 
cessarily acquired of the manners, passions, and prejudices of the rustics 
around him — of whatever was ridiculous, no less than whatever was affect- 
ingly beautiful in rural life." This is very good, but who ever disputed the 
exquisite graphic truth of the poem to which the critic refers ? The ques- 
tion remains as it stood ; is there then nothing besides a strange mixture 
of superstition, traffic, and amusement, in the scene which such an annual 
celebration in a rural parish of Scotland presents ? Does nothing of what 
is " affectingly beautiful in rural life," make a part in the original which 
was before the poet's eyes ? Were " Superstition," " Hypocrisy," and 
" Fun," the only influences which he might justly have impersonated ? It 
would be hard, I think, to speak so even of the old popish festivals to which 
Mr. Heron alludes ; it would be hard, surely, to say it of any festival in 
which, mingled as they may be with sanctimonious pretenders, and sur- 
rounded with giddy groups of onlookers, a mighty multitude of devout men 
are assembled for the worship of God, beneath the open heaven, and above 
the tombs of their fathers. 

Let us beware, however, of pushing our censure of a young poet, mad 
with the inspiration of the moment, from whatever source derived, too far. 
It can hardly be doubted that the author of The Cottars Saturday Night 
had felt, in his time, all that any man can feel in the contemplation of the 
most sublime of the religious observances of his country ; and as httle, that 
had he taken up the subject of this rural sacrament in a solemn mood, he 
might have produced a piece as gravely beautiful, as his Holy Fair is 
quaint, graphic, and picturesque. A scene of family worship, on the other 
hand, I can easily imagine to have come from his hand as pregnant with the 
ludicrous as that Holy Fair itself. The family prayers of the Saturday's 
night, and the rural celebration of the Eucharist, are parts of the same sys- 
tem — the system which has made the people of Scotland what they are — 
and what, it is to be hoped, they will continue to be. And when men ask 
of themselves what this great national poet really thought of a system in 
which minds immeasurably inferior to his can see so much to venerate, it 
is surely just that they should pay most attention to what he has delivered 
under the gravest sanction. 

The Reverend Hamilton Paul does not desert his post on occasion of 
The Holy Fair ; he defends that piece as manfully as Holy Willie; and, 
indeed, expressly applauds Burns for having endeavoured to explode " a- 
buses discountenanced by the General Assembly." Hallotveen, a descrip- 
tive poem, perhaps even more exquisitely wrought than tlie Holy Fair, 
ViA containing nothing that could offend the feelings of anybody, was pro- 



xxxli LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

duced about the same period. Burns's art had now reached its climax j 
but it is time that we should revert more particularly to the jfersonal his- 
tory of the poet. 

He seems to have very soon perceived, that the farm of Mossgiel could 
at the best furnish no more tluin tbe bare means of existence to so large 
a family ; and wearied with " the prospects drear," from which he only 
escaped in occasional intervals of social merriment, or when gay flashes of 
solitary fancy, for they were no more, threw sunshine on every thing, he 
very naturally took up the notion of quitting Scotland for a time, and try- 
ing his fortune in the Vv'est Indies, wliere, as is well known, the managers 
of the plantations are, in the great majority of cases, Scotchmen of Burns's 
own rank and condition. His letters sliow, that on two or three different 
occasions, long before his poetrj^ had excited any attention, he had applied 
for, and nearly obtained appointments of this sort, through the intervention 
of his acquaintances in the sea-part of Irvine. Petty accidents, not worth 
describing, interfered to disappoint him from time to time ; but at last a 
new burst of misfortune rendered him doubly anxious to escape from his 
native land ; and but for an accident, liis arrangements would certainly 
have been completed. But we must not come quite so rapidly to the last 
of his Ayrshire love-stories. How many lesser romances of this order were 
evolved and completed during his residence at Mossgiel, it is needless to 
inquire ; that they were many, his songs prove, for in those days he wrote 
no love-songs on imaginary Heroines. Mary Morison — Behind yon hills 
wliere Stitichar Jlows — On Cessnock hank there lives a lass — belong to this 
period ; and there are three or four inspired by Mary Campbell — the ob- 
ject of by far the deepest passion that ever Burns knew, and which he has 
accordingly immortalized in tlie noblest of his elegiacs. In introducing 
to Mr. Thomson's notice the song, — . 

" Vrill ye go to tlie Indies, my Mary, 
And leave auld Scotia's shore ? — 
^Vill ye go to the Indies, my Rlary, 
Across the Atlantic's roar ?" 

Burns says, " In my early years, when I was thinking of going to the West 
Indies, 1 took this farewell of a dear girl ;" afterwards, in a note on — 

*' Ye banks, and braes, and streams around 
The Castel o' Montgomerie ; 
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, 
Your waters never drumlie." 

he adds, — " After a pretty long trial of the most ardent reciprocal affec* 
lion, we met by appointment on the second Sunday of May, in a sequester- 
ed spot by the banks of Ayr, where we spent a day in taking a farwell be- 
fore she should embark for the West Highlands, to arrange matters among 
her friends for our projected change of life. At the close of the autumn 
following she crossed the sea to meet me at Greenock, where she had 
scarce landed when she was seized with a malignant fever, which hurried 
my dear girl to her grave in a few days, before I could even hear of her ill- 
ness ;" and Mr. Cromek, speaking of the same " day of parting love," gives 
some further particulars. " This adieu," says that zealous inquirer into the 
details of Burns's story, " was performed with all those simple and striking 
ceremonials, which rustic sentiment has devised to prolong tender emotions^ 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xxjclU 

and to impose awe. The lovers stood on each side of a small purling brook 
— they laved their hands in the limpid stream — and, holding a Bible be- 
tween them, pronounced their vows to be faithful to each other. They 
parted — never to meet again." It is proper to add, that Mr. Cromek's story 
has recently been confirmed vcr}' strongly by the accidental discovery of a 
Bible presented by Burns to 3lary Cmnphdl, in the possession of her still 
surviving sister at Ardrossan. Upon the boards of the first volume is in- 
scribed, in Burns's hand-writing, — " And ye shall not swear by my name 
falsely — I am the Lord." — Levit. chap. xix. v. 12. On the second volume, 
— " Thou shalt not forswear thyself, but shalt perform unto the Lord thine 
oath." — St. Matth. chap, v., v. 33. And, on a blanic leaf of either, — " Ro- 
bert Burns, Mossgiel." How lasting was the poet's remembrance of this 
pure love, and its tragic termination, will be seen hereafter. Highland 
Mary seems to have died ere her lover had made any of his more serious 
attempts in poetry. \i\ the Epistle to Mr. Sillar, (as we have already hint- 
ed), the very earliest, according to Gilbert, of these attempts, the poet 
celebrates " his Davie and his Jean." This was Jean Armour, a young 
woman, a step, if any thing, above Burns's own rank in life, the daughter 
of a respectable man, a master-mason, in the village of Mauchline, where 
she was at the time the reigning toast, and who still survives, as the re- 
spected widow of our poet. There are numberless allusions to her maiden 
charms in the best pieces which he produced at Mossgiel ; amongst others 
is the six Belles of Mauchline, at the head of whom she is placed. 

" In Mauchline there dwells six proper young belles. 
The pride of the place and its neighbourhood a' ; 
Their carriage and dress, a stranger would guess, 
In Lon'on or Paris they'd gotten it a' : 

" Miss Millar is fine, Miss Markland's divine, 

Miss Smith she has wit, and Miss Betty is braw ; 
There's beauty and fortune to get wi' Miss Morton, 
But Armour's the jewel for me o' them a'." 

The time is not yet come, in which all the details of this story can be ex- 
pected. Jean Armour found herself pregnant. 

Burns's worldly circumstances were in a most miserable state when he 
was informed of Miss Armour's condition ; and the first announcement of 
it staggered him like a blow. He saw nothing for it but to fly the country 
at once ; and, in a note to James Smith of Mauchline, the confidant of his 
amour, he thus wrote : — " Against two things I am fixed as fate — staying 
at home, and owning her conjugally. The first, by Heaven, I will not do ! 
— the last, by hell, I will never do ! — A good God bless you, and make 

you happy, up to the Avarmest weeping wish of parting friendship 

If you see Jean, tell her I will meet her, so help me God, in my hour of 
need." The lovers met accordingly ; and the result of the meeting was 
what was to be anticipated from the tenderness and the manliness of Burns's 
feelings. All dread of personal inconvenience yielded at once to the tears 
of the woman he loved, and, ere they parted, he gave into her keeping a 
written acknowledgment of marriage. This, under the circumstances, and 
produced by a person in Miss Armour's condition, according to the Scots 
law, was to be accepted as legal evidence of an irregular marriage having 
really taken place ; it being of course understood that the marriage was to 
be formally avowed as soon as the consequences of their imprudence could 
no longer be concealed from her familv. The disclosure was deferred to 

7 ' 



mav LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

the last moment, and it was received by the father of Miss Armour with . 
equal surprise and anger. Burns, confessing himself to be unequal to the 
maintenance of a family, proposed to go immediately to Jamaica, where he 
hoped to find better fortunes. He offered, if this were rejected, to aban- 
don his farm, which was by this time a hopeless concern, and earn bread, 
at least for his wife and children, by his labour at home ; but nothing could 
appease the indignation of Armour. By what arguments he prevailed on 
his daughter to take so strange and so painful a step we know not ; but the 
fact is certain, that, at his urgent entreaty, she destroyed the document. 

It was under such extraordinary circumstances that Miss Armour be- 
came the mother of twins. — Burns's love and pride, the two most powerful 
feelings of his mind, had been equally wounded. His anger and grief to- 
gether drove him, according to every account, to the verge of absolute 
insanity ; and some of his letters on this occasion, both published and un- 
published, have certainly all the appearance of having been written in as 
deep a concentration of despair as ever preceded the most awful of human 
calamities. His first thought had been, as we have seen, to fly at once 
from the scene of his disgrace and misery ; and this course seemed now to 
be absolutely necessary. He was summoned to find security for the main- 
tenance of the children whom he was prevented from legitimating ; but 
the man who had in his desk the immortal poems to which we have been 
referring above, either disdained to ask, or tried in vain to find, pecuniary 
assistance in his hour of need ; and the only alternative that presented it- 
self to his view was America or a jail 



CHAPTER IV. 

Contents.— . TVic Poet gives vp Mossgiel to his Brother (iilhat — IiitcniJs for Jamaica- 
Subscription Edition of his Poems suggested to sitppli/ means of outfit — One of 600 copies 
printed at Kilmarnock, 1786 — It brings him lurtcnded n'pii/iiti:m, and £20 — Also manii 
very kind friends, but no patron — In these cireni)i:d'ince.^, (jnagiag fust hinted to him by 
his early friends, Hamilton and Aiken — Snyiwjs and doings in ths firft year of his fame — 
Jamaica again in view — Plan desisted from because of enonviigcvent by Dr. SlacUock 
to publish at Edinburgh, tvherein the Poet sojourns. 



" He saw misfortune's cauld nor''-wcst, 
Lang mustering up a bitter blast ; 
A jUlet brak his heart at last, 

.111 may she be ! 
So, took a birth afore the mast, 

•'An' owre the sea." 

I 

Iamaica was now his mark, for at. that time the United States were 
not looked to as the place of refuge they have since become. After some 
little time, and not a little trouble, the situation of assistant-overseer on 
the estate of Dr. Douglas in that colony, was procured for him by one of 
his friends in the town of Irvine. Mone}' to pay for his passage, however, 
he had not ; and it at last occurred to him that the few pounds requisite 
for this purpose, might be raised by the publication of some of the finest 
poems that ever delighted mankind. 

His landlord, Gavin Hamilton, Mr. Aiken, and other friends, encouraged 
him warmly ; and after some hesitation, he at length resolved to hazard an 
experiment which might perhaps better his circumstances ; and, if any tole- 
rable number of subscribers could be procured, could not make them worse 
than they were already. His rural patrons exerted themselves with suc- 
cess in the matter; and so many copies were soon subscribed for, that 
Burns entered into terms with a printer in Kilmarnock, and began to copy 
out his performances for the press. He carried iiis MSS. piecemeal to the 
printer ; and encouraged by the ray of light which unexpected patronage 
had begun to throw on his affairs, composed, while the printing was in pro- 
gress, some of the best poems of the collection. The tale of the Twa Dogs, 
for instance, with which the volume commenced, is known to have been 
written in the short interval between the publication being determined on 
and the printing begun. His own account of the business to Dr. Moore is 
as follows : — 

" I gave up my part of the farm to my brother : in truth, it was only 
nominally mine ; and made what little preparation was in my power for 
Jamaica. But before leaving my native land, I resolved to publish my 
Poems. I weighed my productions as impartially as was in my power : I 
thought they had merit ; and it was a delicious idea that I should be called 
a clever fellow, even though it should never reach my ears — a poor negro- 
driver — or, perhaps, a victim to that mhospitable clime, and gone to the 



xxxvl LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

world of spirits. I can truly say that, pauvre inconnu as I then was, 1 had 
pretty nearly as high an idea of myself and of my works as I have at this 
moment when the public has decided in their favour. It ever was my opi- 
nion, that the mistakes and blunders, both in a rational and religious point 
of view, of which we see thousands daily guilty, are owing to their igno- 
rance of themselves To know myself, had been all along my constant 

study. I weighed myself alone ; I balanced myself with others : I watch- 
ed every means of information, to see how much ground I occupied as a 
man and as a poet : I studied assiduously Nature's design in my formation — 
where the lights and shades in character were intended. I was pretty con- 
fident my poems would meet with some applause ; but, at the worst, the 
roar of the Atlantic would deafen the voice of censure, and the novelty of 
West Indian scenes make me forget neglect. I threw olf six hundred copies, 
for which I got subscriptions for about three hundred and fifty.* — My va- 
nity was highly gratified by the reception I met with from the public ; and 
besides, I pocketed nearly ,f 20. This sum came very seasonably, as I was 
thinking of indenting myself, for want of money to procure my passage. As 
soon as I was master of nine guineas, the price of wafting me to the torrid 
zone, I took a steerage passage in the first ship that was to sail from the 
Clyde ; for 

" Hungry ruin had mc in tlic wind." 

** I had been for some days skulking from covert to covert, under all the 
terrors of a jail ; as some ill-advised people had uncoupled the merciless 
pack of the law at my heels. I had taken the last farev.cll of my i'ew friends ; 
my chest was on the road to Greenock; I had composed the last song I 
should ever measure in Caledonia, The gloonnj night is yaiherbig fust, when 
a letter from Dr. Blacklock to a friend of mine, overthrew all my schemes, 
by opening new prospects to my poetic ambition." 

To the above rapid narrative of the poet, we may annex a few details, 

gathered from his various biographers and from his own letters While 

the Kilmarnock edition was in the press, it appears that his friends Hamil- 
ton and Aiken revolved various schemes for procuring him the means of | 
remaining in Scotland ; and having studied some of the practical branches 
of mathematics, as we have seen, and in particular (judfjlng, it occurred to 
himself that a situation in the Excise might be better suited to him than any | 
other he was at all likely to obtain by the intervention of such patrons as he 
possessed. He appears to have lingered longer after the i)ublication of the 
poems than one miglit suppose from his own narrative, in the hope that 
these gentlemen might at length succeed in their efibrts in his behalf The 
poems were received with favour, even with rapture, in the county of Ayr, 
and ere long over the adjoining counties. " Old and young," thus speaks 
Robert Heron, " high and low, grave and gay, learned or ignorant, were 
alike delighted, agitated, transported. I was at that time resident in Gal- 
loway, contiguous to Ayrshire, and I can well remember how even plough- 
boys and maid-servants would have glady bestowed the wages they earned 
the most hardly, and which they wanted to purchase necessary clothing, 
if they might but procure the Works of Burns." — The poet soon found 
that his person also had become an object of general curiosity, and that a I 
lively interest in his personal fortunes was excited among sonie of the gen- 

" Gilbert Bums mentions, that a single indiyidual, Mr. ■yVIUiam ParV«r merchant in 
KUtn«rno«k, subscribed for S5 copies< 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xxxvii 

try of the district, when the details of his story reached them, as it was 
pretty sure to do, along with his modest and manly preface. * Among 
others, the celebarted Professor Dugald Stewart of Edinburgh, and his ac- 
complished lady, then resident at their beautiful seat of Catrine, began to 
notice him with much polite and friendly attention. Dr. Hugh Blair, who 
then held an eminent place in the literary society of Scotland, happened 
to be paj'ing Mr. Stewart a visit, and on reading The Holy Fair, at once 
pronounced it the " work of a very great genius ;" and Mrs. Stewart, her- 
self a poetess, flattered him perhaps still more highly by her warm com- 
mendations. But, above all, his little volume happened to attract the no- 
tice of Mrs. Dunlop of Dunlop, a lady of high birth and ample fortune, 
enthusiastically attached to her countrj^ and interested in whatever ap- 
peared to concern the honour of Scotland. This excellent woman, while 
slowly recovering from the languor of an illness, laid her hand acciden- 
tally on the new production of the provincial press, and opened the volume 
at T/ie Cottar's Suturdai/ Niffht. " She read it over,'' says Gilbert, " with 
the greatci-t pleasure and surprise ; the poet's description of the simple 
cottagers operated on her mind like the charm of a powerful exorcist, re- 
pelling the demon ennui, and restoring her to her m onted inward harmony 
and satisfaction." Mrs. Dunlop instantly sent an express to Mossgiel, dis- 
tant sixteen miles from her residence, v/ith a very kind letter to Burns, re- 
questing him to supply her, if he could, with half-a-dozen copies of the 
book, and to call at Dunlop as soon as he could find it convenient. Burns 
was from home, but he acknowledged the favour conferred on him in this 
very interesting letter : — 

" Madam, Ayrshire, 1786. 

*' I AM truly sorry I was not at home yesterday, when I was so much 
honoured with your order for my copies, and incomparably more by the 
handsome compliments you are pleased to pay my poetic abilities. I am 
fully persuaded that there is not any class of mankind so feelingly alive to 
the titillations of applause as the sons of Parnassus ; nor is it easy to con- 
ceive how the heart of the poor bard dances with rapture, when those 
whose character in life gives them a right to be polite judges, honour him 
with their approbation. Had you been thoroughly acquainted with me, 
Madam, you could not have touched my darling heart-chord more sweetly 
than by noticing my attempts to celebrate your illustrious ancestor, the 
Saviour of his (Joxmtry. 

'• Great patriot hero ! ill requited chief !" 

" The first book I met with in my early years, which I perused with 
pleasure, was The Life of Hanmhtd ; the next was The History of Sir 
William Wallace: lor several of my earlier years I had few other authors ; 
and many a solitary hour have I stole out, after the laborious vocations of 
the day, to shed a tear over their glorious but unfortunate stories. In 
those boyish days 1 remember in particular being struck with that part of 
Wallace's story where these lines occur — 

" Syne to the Leglan wood, when it was late, 
To make a silent and a safe retreat." 

• See Prose Compositions, 



xxxviil • LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

" I chose a fine summer Sunday, the only day my ime of life allowed, 
and walked half a dozen of miles to pay my respects to the Leglan wood, 
with as much devout cnthsiasm as ever pilgrim did to Loretto ; and as I 
explored every den and dell where I could suppose my heroic countryman 
to have lodged, I recollect (for even then I was a rhymer), that my heart 
glowed with a wish to be able to make a song on him in some measure 
equal to his merits." 

Shortly afterwards commenced a personal acquaintance with this ami- 
able and intelligent lady, who seems to have filled in some degree the place 
of Sage Mentor to the poet, and who never afterwards ceased to befriend 
him to the utmost of her power. His letters to Mrs. Dunlop form a very 
largo proportion of all his subsequent correspondence, and, addressed as 
they were to a person, whose sex, age, rank, and benevolence, inspired at 
once profound respect and a graceful confidence, will ever remain the most 
pleasing of all the materials of our poet's biography. 

At the residences of these new acquaintances. Burns was introduced into 
society of a class which he had not before approached ; and of the manner 
in which he stood the trial, Mr. Stewart thus writes to Dr. Currie : — 

<' His manners were then, as they continued ever afterwards, simple, 
manly, and independent ; strongly expressive of conscious genius and 
worth ; but without any thing that indicated forwardness, arrogance, or 
vanity. He took his share in conversation, but not more than belonged to 
him ; and listened, with apparent attention and deference, on subjects 
u'here his want of education deprived him of the means of information. If 
there had been a little more of gentleness and accommodation in his tem- 
per, he would, I think, have been still more interesting ; but he had been 
accustomed to give law in the circle of his ordinary acquaintance ; and his 
dread of any thing approaching to meanness or servility, rendered his man- 
ner somewhat decided and hard. Nothing, perhaps, was more remarkable 
among his various attainments than the fluency, and precision, and origi- 
nality of his language, when he spoke in company, moi'e particularly as he 
aimed at purity in his turn of expression, and avoided, more successfully 
than most Scotsmen, the peculiarities of Scottish phraseology. At this time, 
Burns's prospects in life were so extremely gloomy, that he had seriously 
formed a plan for going out to Jamaica in a very humble situation, not, 
liowever, without lamenting that his want of jiatronage should force him 
to think of a project so repugnant to his feelings, when his ambition aimed, 
at no higher an object than the station of an exciseman or gauger in his 
own country," 

The provincial applause of his publication, and the consequent notice of 
his superiors, however flattering such things must have been, were far from 
administering any essential relief to the urgent necessities of Burns's situa- 
tion. Very shortly after his first visit to Catrine, where he met with tlie 
young and amiable Basil Lord Daer, whose condescension and kindness on 
the occasion he celebrates in some well-known verses, we find the poet 
writing to his friend, Mr. Aiken of Ayr, in the following sad strain :■ — " I 
have been feeling all the various rotations and movements within respect- 
ing the Excise. There are many things plead strongly against it ; the un- 
certainty of getting soon into business, the consequences of my follies, which 
may perhaps make it impracticable for me to stay at home ; and besides, 
I have for some time been pining under secret wretchedness, from causes 



LIFE OF ROE CRT BURNS. xxxix 

which you pretty well know — the pang of disappointment, the sting of 
pride, with some wandering stabs of remorse, which never fail to settle on 
my vitals, like vultures, when attention is not called away by society, or 
the vagaries of the muse. Even in the hour of social mirth, my gaiety is 
the madness of an intoxicated crin^inid iiiiclcrthc ]::;nc!s of the executioner. 
All these reasons urge me to go abroad ; and to all tL?se reasons I have 
only one answer — the feelings of a father. This, in the present mood I am 
in, overbalances every thing that cim be laid in the scale against it." 

Pie proceeds to say, that he claims no right to conipkun. " The v/orlcl 
has in general been kind to me, fully up to my deserts. I was for some 
time past fast getting into the pining distrustful snarl of the misanthrope. 
I saw myself alone, unfit for the struggle of life, shrinking at every rising 
cloud in the chance-directed atmosphere of fortune, M'hile, all defenceless, 
I looked about in vain for a cover. It never occurred to me, at least never 
with the force it deserved, that this world is a busy scene, and man a crea- 
ture destined for a progressive struggle ; and that, liowever I might pos- 
sess a warm heart, and inoffensive manners, (which last, by the by, was 
rather more than I could well boast), still, more than these passive quali- 
ties, there Avas something to be done. When all my schoolfellows and 
youthful compeers were striking off, with eager hope and earnest intent, 
on some one or other of the many paths of busy life, I was " standing idle 
:n the market-place," or only left the chase of the butterfly from flower to 
flower, to hunt fancy from whim to whim. You see. Sir, that if to know 
one's errors, were a probability of mending them, I stand a fair chance ; 
but, according to the revei'cnd Westminster divines, though conviction 
must precede conversion, it is very far from always implying it." 

In the midst of all the distresses of this period of suspense, Burns found 
time, as he tells Mr. Aiken, for some " vagaries of the muse ;" and one or 
two of these may desei've to be noticed here, as throwing light on his per- 
sonal demeanour during this first summer of his fame. The poems appear- 
ed in July, and one of the first persons of superior condition (Gilbert, in- 
deed, says the first) who courted his acquaintance in consequence of having 
read them, was Mrs. Stewart of Stair, a beautiful and accomplished lady. 
Burns presented her on this occasion with some MSS. songs ; and among 
the rset, with one in which her own charms were celebrated in that warm 
strain of compliment which our poet seems to have all along considered 
the most proper to be used whenever this fair lady was to be addressed in 
rhyme. 

" Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, 
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in tliy praise : 
My Rlary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. 
How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, 
M'here wild in the woodlands the pritnroses blow ; 
There oft, as mild evening sweeps over the lea. 
The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me." 

It was in the spring of the same year, that he happened, in the course 
of an evening ramble on the banks of the Ayr, to meet with a young and 
lovely unmarried lady, of the family of Alexander of Ballamyle, of whom, 
it was said, her personal charms corresponded with the character of her 
mind. The incident gave rise to a poem, of which an account will be 
found in the following letter to Miss Alexander, the object of his inspira- 
tion : — 



I -. 



j^J LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS, 

<' Madam, 3Iossgiel, ISth Nov. 1786. 

" Poets are such outre beings, so much the children of wayward fancy 
and capricious whim, that I believe the world generally allows them a 
larger latitude in the laws of propriety, than the sober sons of judgment 
and prudence. I mention this as an apology for the liberties that a name- 
less stranger has taken with you in the enclosed poem, which he begs leave 
to present you with. Whether it has poetical merit any way worthy of the 
theme, I am not the proper judge ; but it is the best my abilities can pro- 
duce ; and what to a good heart will perhaps be a superior grace, it is 
equally sincere as fervent. 

" The scenery was nearly taken from real life, though I dare say. Ma- 
dam, you do not recollect it, as I believe you scarcely noticed the poetic 
reveur as he wandered by you. I had roved out as chance directed in the 
favourite haunts of my muse, on the banks of the Ayr, to view nature in 
all the gaiety of the vernal year. The evening sun was flaming over the 
distant western hills ; not a breath stirred the crimson opening blossom, or 
the verdant spreading leaf. It was a golden moment for a poetic heart. I 
listened to the feathered warblers, pouring their harmony on every hand, 
with a congenial kindred regard, and frequently turned out of my path, 
lest I should disturb their little songs, or frighten them to another station. 
Surely, said I to myself, he must be a wretch indeed, who, regardless of 
your harmonious endeavour to please him, can eye your elusive flights to 
discover your secret recesses, and to rob you of all the property nature 
gives you, your dearest comforts, your helpless nestlings. Even the hoary 
hawthorn-twig that shot across the way, what heart at such a time but 
must have been interested in its weUare, and wished it preserved from 
the rudely-browsing cattle, or the withering eastern blast ? Such was the 
scene, and such the hour, when in a corner of my prospect, I spied one 
of the fairest pieces of Nature's workmanship that ever crowned a poetic 
landscape, or met a poet's eye, those visionary bards excepted who hold 
commerce with aerial beings ! Had Calumny and Yillany taken my walk, 
they had at that moment sworn eternal peace with such an object. 

" What an hour of inspiration for a poet ! It would have raised plain, 
dull, historic prose into metaphor and measure. 

" The enclosed song was the work of my return home ; and perhaps it 
bi|t poorly answers what might be expected from such a scene. 



" I have the honour to be," &c. 



" 'Twas even — the dwey fields were green, 

On every blade the peails hang ;" 
The Zephyr wanton'd round the beam. 

And bore its fragrant sweets alang ; 
In every glen tlie mavis sang. 

All nature listening seemed the while, 
Except where green- wood echoes rang, 

Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle. 

With careless step I onward strayed, 
My heart rejoiced in nature's joy. 

When musinjj in a lonely glade, 
A maiden tair 1 chanc'd to spy ; 

Her look was like the morning's eye, 
Her air like nature's vernal smile, 

• HftDg, Scotticism for hung. 



;LIFE of ROBERT BURNS, xli 

Perfection •whispered passing by, 
Behold the lass o' IiaUochniyle !• 

Fair is the morn in flowery I\Iay, 

And sweet is night in autumn mild ; 
When roving through the garden gay, 

Or wandering in the lonely wild t' 
But woman, nature's darling child ! 

There all her charms she does compile: 
Even there her other works are foil'd 

By the bonny lass o' BaUochmyle. 

O had she been a country maid. 

And I the hap]jy country swain, 
Though sheltered in the lowest shed 

That ever rose on Scotland's plain. 
Through weary winter's wind and rain. 

With joy, with rapture, I would toil, 
And nightly to my bosom strain 

The bonny lass o' BaUochmyle. 

Then pride might climb the slippery steep. 

Where fame and honours lofty shine ; 
And thirst of gold might tempt the deep, 

Or downward seek the Indian mine : 
Give me the cot below the pine. 

To tend the flocks or till the soil, 
And every day have joys divine. 

With the bonny lass o' BaUochmyle. 

The autumn of this eventful year was now drawing to a close, and Burns, 
who Iiad already lingered three months in the hope, which he now consi- 
dered vain, of an excise appointment, perceived that another year must be 
lost altogether, unless he made up his mind, and secured his passage to 
the West Indies. The Kilmarnock edition of his poems was, however, 
nearly exhausted ; and his friends encouraged him to produce another at 
the same place, with the view of equipping himself the better for the ne- 
cessities of his voyage. But the printer at Kilmarnock would not under- 
take the new impression unless Burns advanced the price of the paper re- 
quired for it ; and with this demand the poet had no means of complying. 
Mr, Ballantyne, the chief magistrate of Ayr, (the same gentleman to whom 
the poem on the Twa Brigs of Ayr was afterwards inscribed), offered to 
furnish the money ; and probably this kind offer would have been accepted. 
But, ere this matter could be arranged, the prospects of the poet were, in 
a very unexpected manner, altered and improved. 

Burns went to pay a parting visit to Dr. Laurie, minister of Loudoun, 
a gentleman from whom, and his accomplished family, he had previously 
received many kind attentions. After taking farewell of this benevolent 
circle,^^ the poet proceeded, as the night was setting in, " to convey his 
chest," as he says, " so far on the road to Greenock, where he was to em- 
bark in a iew days for America." And it was under these circumstances 
that he composed the song already referred to, v/hich he meant as his fare- 
well dirge to his native land, and which ends thus : — 

" Farewell, old Coila's hiUs and dales. 
Her heathy moors and winding vales. 
The scenes where wretched fancy roves, 
Pursuing past unhappy loves. 

" Variation. The lily's hue and rose's dye 

Bespoke the lass o' BaUochmyle. 
8 



xlii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

Farewell, my friends ! farewell, my foes ! 
My peace with these — my love with those — 
Tne bursting tears my heart declare, 
Farewell, the bonny banks of Ayr." 

Dr. Laurie had given Burns much good counsel, and what comfort he 
could, at parting ; but prudently said nothing of an effort which he had 
previously made in his behalf. He had sent a copy of the poems, with a 
sketch of the author's history, to his friend Dr. Thomas Blacklock of Edin- 
burgh, with a request that he would introduce both to the notice of those 
persons whose opinions were at the time most listened to in regard to lite- 
rary productions in Scotland, in the hope that, by their intervention, Burns 
might yet be rescued from the necessity of expatriating himself Dr. 
Blacklock's answer reached Dr. Laurie a day or two after Burns had made 
his visit, and composed his dirge ; and it was not yet too late. Laurie 
forwarded it immediately to Mr. Gavin Hamilton, who carried it to Burns, 
It is as follows : — 

" I ought to have acknowledged your favour long ago, not only as a tes- . 
timony of your kind remembrance, but as it gave me an opportunity of 
sharing one of the finest, and perhaps one of the most genuine entertain- 
ments of which the human mind is susceptible. A number of avocations 
retarded my progress in reading the poems ; at last, however, I have finish- 
ed that pleasing perusal. Many instances have I seen of Nature's force or 
beneficence exerted under numerous and formidable disadvantages ; but 
none equal to that with which you have been kind enough to present me. 
There is a pathos and delicacy in his serious poems, a vein of wit and hu- 
mour in those of a more festive turn, which cannot be too much admired, 
nor too warmly approved ; and I think I shall never open the book without 
feeling my astonishment renewed and increased. Jt was my wish to have 
expressed my approbation in verse ; but whether from declining life, or a 
temporary depression of spirits, it is at present out of my power to accom- 
plish that agreeable intention. 

" Mr. Stewart, Professor of Morals in this University, had formerly 
read me three of the poems, and I had desired him to get my name in- 
serted among the subscribers ; but whether this was done or not, I never 
could learn. I have little intercourse with Dr. Blair, but will take care to 
have the poems communicated to him by the intervention of some mutual 
friend. It has been told me by a gentleman, to whom I showed the per- 
formances, and who sought a copy with diligence and ardour, that the 
whole impression is already exhausted. It were, therefore, much to be 
wished, for the sake of the young man, that a second edition, more nume- 
rous than the former, could immediately be printed ; as it appears certain 
that its intrinsic merit, and the exertions of the author's friends, might give 
it a more universal circulation than any thing of the kind which has been 
published in ray memory." 

We have already seen with what surprise and delight Burns read this 
generous letter. Although he had ere this conversed with more than one 
person of established literary reputation, and received from them atten- 
tions, for which he was ever after grateful, — the despondency of his spirit 
appears to have remained as dark as ever, up to the very hour when his land- 
lord produced Dr. Blacklock's letter. — " There was never," Heron says, 
•' perhaps, one among all mankind whom you might more truly have called 
an angel upoa earth than Dr. Blacklock. He was guileless and innocent 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xliii 

as a child, yet endowed with manly sagacity and penetration. His heart 
was a perpetual spring of benignity. His feelings were all tremblingly 
alive to the sense of the sublime, the beautiful, the tender, the pious, the 
virtuous. Poetry was to him the dear solace of perpetual blindness." This 
was not the man to act as Walpole did to Chatterton ; to discourage with 
feeble praise, and in order to shift off the trouble of future patronage, to 
bid the poet relinquish poetry and mind his plough. — " Dr. Blacklock," 
says Burns himself, " belonged to a set of critics, for whose applause I had 
not dared to hope. His opinion that I would meet with encouragement in 
Edinburgh, fired me so much, that away I posted for that city, without a 
single acquaintance, or a single letter of introduction. The baneful star 
that had so long shed its blasting influence on my zenith, for once made a 
revolution to the nadir." 



CHAPTER V. 

Contents The Poet winters in Edinburgh, 1786-7 — By his advent, the condition of that 

Liiy, Literary, Legal, Philosophical, Patrician, and Pedantic, is lighted up, as by a meteor 
— He is in the full tide of his fame there, and fur a while caressed by the fashionable — 
Whet happens to him generally in that new world, and his behaviour utider the varying and 
very trying circumstatices — The tavern life then greatly followed — The Poet tempted beyond 
all farmer experience by bacchanals of every degree — His conversational talent universaJfy 
admitted, as not the least of his talents — The Ladies like to be carried off their feet by it, 
while the philosophers hardly keep theirs — Edition of 1500 copies by Creech, which yields 
much money to the Poet — Pesolves to visit the classic scenes of his own country — Assailed 
with thick-coming visions of a reflux to bear him back to the region of poverty and seclusion. 



" Edina ! Scotia's darling seat ! 

All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, 
Where once beneath a monarch's feet 

Sat legislation's sovereign powers ; 
From marking wildly-scatter'd flow'is, 

As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, 
And singing, lone, the lingering hours, 

I slielter in thy honour'd shade." 

BuKNS found several of his okl Ayrshire acquaintances estabhshed in 
Edinburgh, and, I suppose, felt himself constrained to give himself up 
for a brief space to their society. He printed, however, without delay, a 
prospectus of a second edition of his poems, and being introduced by 
Mr. Dalrymple of Orangefield to the Earl of Glencairn, that amiable 
nobleman easily persuaded Creech, then the chief bookseller in Edinburgh, 
to undertake the publication. The Honourable Henry Erskine, Dean ot 
the Faculty of Advocates, the most agreeable of companions, and the most 
benignant of wits, took him also, as the poet expresses it, " under his 
wing." The kind Blacklock received him with all the warmth of paternal 
affection, and introduced him to Dr. Blair, and other eminent literati; 
his subscription lists were soon filled ; Lord Glencairn made interest 
with the Caledonian Hunt, (an association of the most distinguished 
members of the northern aristocracy), to accept the dedication of the forth- 
coming edition, and to subscribe individually for copies. Several noblemen, 
especially of the west of Scotland, came forward with subscription-moneys 
considerably beyond the usual rate. In so small a capital, where every 
body knows every body, that which becomes a favourite topic in one 
leading circle of society, soon excites an universal interest ; and before 
Burns had been a fortnight in Edinburgh, we find him writing to his 
earliest patron, Gavin Hamilton, in these terms : — " For ni}^ own affairs, I 
am in a fair way of becoming as eminent as Thomas a Kempis or John Bun- 
yan ; and you may expect henceforth to see my birth-day incribed among 
the wonderful events in the Poor Robin and Aberdeen Almanacks, along 
with the Black Monday, and the Battle of Bothwell Bridge.** 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xlv 

It 18 but a melancholy business to trace among the records of literary 
history, the manner in which most great original geniuses have been greet- 
ed on their first appeals to the world, by the contemporary arbiters of 
taste ; coldly and timidly indeed have the sympathies of professional criti- 
cism flowed on most such occasions in past times and in the present : Rut 
the reception of Burns was worthy of The Man uf Feeling. Mr. Henry 
Mackenzie was a man of genius, and of a polished, as well as a liberal taste. 
After alluding to the provincial circulation and reputation of the first edi- 
tion of the poems, Mr. Mackenzie thus wrote in the Lounger, an Edin- 
burgh periodical of that period : — " I hope I shall not be thought to assume 
too much, if I endeavour to place him in a ]n"gher point of view, to call 
ibr a verdict of his country on tlie merits of his works, and to claim for 
him those honours which their excellence appears to deserve. In men- 
tioning the circumstance of his humble station, I mean not to rest his pre- 
tensions solely on that title, or to urge the merits of his poetry, when con- 
sidered in relation to the lowness of his birth, and the little opportunity of 
improvement which his education could afford. These particulars, indeed, 
must excite our wonder at his productions ; but his poetry, considered ab- 
stractedly, and without the apologies arising from his situation, seems to 
me fully entitled to command our feelings, and to obtain our applause." 

After quoting various passages, in some of which his readers 

" must discover a high tone of feeling, and power, and energy of expres- 
sion, particularly and strongly ch.aracteristic of the mind and the voice of 
a poet," and others as shewing " the power of genius, not less admirable 
in tracing the manners, than in painting the passions, or in drawing the 
scenery of nature," and " with what uncommon penetration and sagacity 
this heaven-taught ploughman, from his humble and unlettered condition, 
had looked on men and manners," the critic concluded with an eloquent 
appeal in behalf of the poet personally : " To repair," said he, " the wrong 
of suffering or neglected merit ; to call forth genius from tlie obscurity in 
which it had pined indignant, and place it where it may profit or delight 
the world — these are exertions which give to wealth an enviable superiori- 
ty, to greatness and to patronage a laudable pride."* 

The appeal thus made for such a candidate was not unattended to. 
Burns was only a very short time in Edinburgh \vhen he thus wrote to one 
of his early friends : — '• I was, when first honoured with your notice, too 
obscure ; now I tremble lest I should be ruined by being dragged too sud- 
denly into the glare of polite and learned observation ;" and he concludes ' 
the same lettf r with an ominous prayer lor " better health and more spi- 
rits."! — Two or three weeks later, we find him writing as follows : — " (Ja- 
nuary 14, 1787). I went to a Mason Lodge yesternight, where the M.W. 
Grand Master Charteris, and all the (irand Lodge of Scotland visited. The 
meeting was numerous and elegant : all the different lodges about town were 

{>re.sent in all their pomp. The Grand Master, who presided with great so- 
emnity, among other general toasts gave, ' Caledonia and Caledonia's bard, 
Brother Burns,' which rung through the whole assembly with multiplied 
honours and repeated acclamations. As I had no idea such a thing would 
happen, I was downright thunderstruck ; and trembling in every nerve, 
made the best return in my power. Just as I had finished, one of the 

• The Lounger for Saturday, December 9, 1786. 

t Letter to Mr. BaUnntyne of Ayr, December 13, 1786 ; Reliques, p. 12. 



Xlvi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

Grand Officers salil, so loud that I could hoar, with a most comforting ac- 
cent, * very well indeed,' which set me soniotliing to rights again." — And 
a few weeks later still, he is thus addressed by one of his old associates 
who was meditating a visit to I'dinburgh. " l>y all accovnits, it will be a 
difficult matter to get a sight of you at all, unless your company is bespoke 
a week beforehand. There are great rumours here of your intimacy with 
the Duchess of Gordon, and other ladies of distinction. I am really told 
that — 

" Cards to invite, fly bj' ihounands each night ;" 

and if you had one, there would also, I suppose, be ' bribes for your old 
secretary.' I observe you are resolved to make hay while the sun shines, 
and avoid, if possible, the fate of poor Ferguson. QiKProida penmia pri- 
mum est — Virtus post iiuinmos, is a good maxim to thrive by. You seem- 
ed to despise it while in this country ; but, probably, some philosophers 
in Edinburgh have taught 3'ou better sense." 

In this proud career, however, the popular idol needed no slave to whis- 
per whence he had risen, and whither he was to return in the ebb of the 
spring-tide of fortune. His " prophetic soul" carried always a sufficient 
memento. He bore all his honours in a manner worthy of himself; and 
of this the testimonies are so numerous, that the only difficulty is that ot 
selection. " The attentions he received," says Mr. Dugald Stewart, " from 
all ranks and descriptions of persons, were such as would have turned any 
head but his own. I cannot say that I could perceive any unfavourable effect 
which they left on his mind. He retained the same simplicity of manners 
and appearance which had struck me so forcibly when I first saw him in the 
country ; nor did he seem to feel any additional self-importance from the 
number and rank of his new acquaintance." — Professor Walker, who met him 
for the first time, early in the same season, at breakfast in Dr. Blacklock's 
house, has thus recorded his impressions : — " I was not much struck with his 
first appearance, as I had previously heard it described. His person, though 
strong and well knit, and much superior to what might be expected in a 
ploughman, was still rather coarse in its outline. His stature, from want 
of setting up, appeared to be only of the middle size, but was rather above 
It. His motions were firm and decided, and though without any preten- 
sions to grace, were at the same time so free from clownish constraint, as 
to show that he had not always been confined to the society of his profes- 
sion. His countenance was not of that elegant cast, which is most fre- 
quent among the upper ranks, but it was manly and intelligent, and marked 
by a thoughtful gravity Avliich shaded at times into sternness. In his large 
dark eye the most striking index of his genius resided. It was full of mind ; 
and would have been singularly expressive, under the management of one 
who could employ it with more art, for the purpose of expression. He 
was plainly, but properly dressed, in a style mid-way between the holiday 
costume of a flirmer, and that of the company with which he now associ- 
ated. His black hair, -without powder, at a time when it was^very gene- 
rally worn, was tied behind, and spread upon his forehead. * Upon the 
whole, from his person, physiognomy, and dress, had I met him near a sea- 
port, and been required to guess his condition, I should have probably con- 
jectured him to be the master of a merchant vessel of the most respectable 
class. In no part of his manner was there the slightest degree of affecta- 
tion, nor could a stranger have suspected, from any thing in his behaviour 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xlvii 

ot conversation, that he had been for some months the favourite of all the 
fashionable circles of a metropolis. In conversation he was powerful. His 
conceptions and expression were of corresponding vigour, and on all subjects 
were as remote as possible from common places. Tliough somewhat autho- 
ritative, it was in a way which gave little offence, and was readily imputed 
to his inexperience in those modes of smoothing dissent and softening asser- 
tion, vvhicli are important characteristics of polished manners. After break- 
fast I requested him to communicate some of his unpublished pieces, and 
he recited his farewell song to the Banks of Ayr, introducing it with a des- 
cription of the circumstances in which it was composed, more striking than 
the poem itself. I paid particular attention to his recitation, which was 
plain, slow, articulate, and forcible, but witliout any eloquence or art. He 
did not always lay the emphasis with propriety, nor did he humour the 
sentiment by the variations of his voice. He was standing, during the time, 
with his face towards the i\ indow, to which, and not to his auditors, he di- 
rected his eye — thus depriving himself of any additional effect which the 
language of liis composition might have borrowed from the language of his 
countenance. In this he resembled the generality of singers in ordinary 
company, who, to shun any charge of affectation, withdraw all meaning 
from their features, and lose the advantage by which vocal performers on 
the stage augment the impression, and give energy to the sentiment of the 
song. The day after my first introduction to Burns, I supped in company 
with him at Dr. Blair's. The other guests were very few, and as each 
had been invited cliiefly to have an opportunity of meeting with the poet, 
the Doctor endeavoured to draw him out, and to make him the central 
figure of the group. Though he therefore furnished the greatest propor- 
tion of the conversation, he did no more than what he saw evidently was 
expected." * 

To these reminiscences I shall now add those of one to whom is always 
readily accorded the willing ear, Sir Walter Scott. — He thus writes : — 
" As for Burns, I may truly say, Virgilium vidi tantum. I was a lad of 
fifteen in 1786-7, when he came first to Edinburgh, but had sense and 
feeling enough to be much interested in his poetry, and would have given 
the world to know him ; but I had very little acquaintance with any lite- 
rary people, and still less with the gentry of the west country, the two 
sets that he most frequented. Mr. Thomas Grierson was at that tune 
a clerk of my father's. He knew Burns, and promised to ask him to his 
lodgings to dinner, but had no opportunity to keep his word ; otherwise I 
might have seen more of this distinguished man. As it was, I saw him 
one day at the late venerable Professor Fergusson's, where there were se- 
veral gentlemen of literary reputation, among whom I remember the cele- 
brated Mr. Dugald Stewart. Of course we youngsters sat silent, looked, 
and listened. The only thing I remember which was remarkable in Bums's 
manner, was the effect produced upon him by a print of Bunbxiry's, re- 
presenting a soldier lying dead on the snow, his dog sitting in misery on 
one side, — on the other, his widow, with a child in her arms. These lines 
were written beneath, — 

" Cold on Canadian hills, or Minden's plain, 
Perhaps that parent wept her soldier slain — 
Bent o'er her babe, her eye dissolved in dew. 
The big drops, minghng with the milk be drew, 

".Morrison's Bums, vol. i. pp. Isxi, Izxii, 



X\Viii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

Gave the sad presage of his future years, 
The child of misery baptized in tears." 

" Burns seemed much affected by the print, or rather the ideaa which 
it suggested to his mind. He actually shed tears. He asked whose the 
lines were, and it chanced that nobody but myself remembered that they 
occur in a halt-forgotten poem of Langhorne's, called by the unpromising 
title of The Justice of Peace. [ whispered my information to a friend 
present, who mentioned it to Burns, who rewarded me with a look and 
a word, v.hich, though of mere civility, I then received, and still recollect, 
with very great pleasure. 

" His person was strong and robust ; liis manners rustic, not clownish ; 
a sort of dignified plainness and simplicity, which received part of its ef- 
fect, perhaps, from one's knowledge of his extraordinary talents. His 
features are represented in Mr. Nasmyth's picture, but to me it conveys 
the idea, that they are diminished as if seen in perspective. I think his 
countenance was more massive than it looks in any of the portraits. I 
would have taken the poet, had I not known what he was, for a very sa- 
gacious country farmer of the old Scotch school, i. e. none of your modern 
agriculturists, who keep labourers for their drudgery, but the douce gude- 
mati who held his own plough. There was a strong expression of sense and 
shrewdness in all his lineaments ; the eye alone, I think, indicated the 
poetical character and temperament. It was large, and of a dark cast, 
which glowed (1 say literally gloived) when he spoke with feeling or inte- 
rest. I never saw such another eye in a human head, though I have seen 
the most distinguished men of my time. His convei'sation expressed perfect 
self-confidence, without the slightest presumption. Among the men who 
were the most learned of their time and country, he expressed himself 
with perfect firmness, but without the least intrusive forwardness ; and 
when he differed in opinion, he did not hesitate to express it firmly, yet at 
the same time with modesty. I do not remember any part of his conver- 
sation distinctly enough to be quoted, nor did I ever see him again, except 
in the street, where he did not recognise me, as I could not expect he 
should. He was much caressed in Edinburgh, but (considering what lite- 
rary emoluments have been since his day) the efforts made for his relief 
were extremely trifling. I remember on this occasion I mention, I thought 
Burns's acquaintance with English Poetry was rather limited, and also, that 
having tAventy times the abilities of Allan Kamsay and of Ferguson, he 
talked of them witli too much humility as his models ; there was, doubt- 
less, national predilection in his estimate. This is all I can tell you about 
Burns. I have only to add, that his dress corresponded with his manner. 
He was like a farmer dressed in his best to dine with the Laird. I do not 
speak in mahim partem, when I say, I never saw a man in company with 
his superiors in station and information, more perfectly free from either 
the reality or the att'ectation of embarrassment. I was told, but did not 
observe it, that his address to females was extremely deferential, and al- 
ways with a turn either to the pathetic or humorous, which engaged their 
attention particularly. I have lieard the late Duchess of Gordon remark 
this. — I do not know any thing I can add to these recollections of forty 
years since." — 

There can be no doubt that Burns made his first appearance at a period 
highly favourable for his reception as a British, and especially as a Scottish 
poet. Nearly forty years had elapsed since the death of Thomson ;— . 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xlix 

Collins, Gray, Goldsmith, had successively disappeared :— Dr. Johnson 
had belied the rich promise of his early appearance, and confined him- 
self to prose ; and Cowper had hardly begun to be recognised as having 
any considerable pretensions to fill the long-vacant throne in England. At 
home— without derogation from the merits either of Douglas or the Min- 
strel, be it said— men must have gone buck at least three centuries to find 
a Scottish poet at all entitled to be considered as of that high order to which 
the generous criticism of Mackenzie at once admitted " the Ayrshire 
Ploughman." Of the form and garb of his composition, much, unquestion- 
ably and avowedly, was derived from his more immediate predecessors, 
Ramsay and Ferguson : but there was a bold mastery of hand in his pic- 
turesque descriptions, to produce any thing equal to which it was neces- 
sary to recall the days of Christ's Kirk on the Green, and Peebles to the 
Play; and m his more solemn pieces, a depth of inspiration, and a massive 
energy of language, to which the dialect of his country had been a stran<^er, 
at least smce " Dunbar the Mackar." The Muses of Scotland had ne%er 
indeed been silent ; and the ancient minstrelsy of the land, of which a slen- 
der portion had as yet been committed to the safeguard of the press, was 
handed from generation to generation, and preserved, in many a fragment, 
faithful unages of the peculiar tenderness, and peculiar humour, of the na- 
tional fancy and character— precious representations, which Burns himself 
never surpassed in his happiest efforts. But these were fragments ; and 
vpith a scanty handful of exceptions, the best oi them, at least of the seri- 
ous kind, were very ancient. .Among the numberless effusions of the 
Jacobite Muse, valuable as we now consider them for the record of man- 
ners and events, it would be difficult to point out half-a-dozen strains 
worthy, for poetical excellence alone, of a place among the old chivalrous 
ballads of the Southern, or even of the Highland Border. Generations haii 
passed away since any Scottish poet had appealed to the sympathies of his 
countrymen in a lofty Scottish strain. 

The dialect itself had been hardly dealt with. " It is my opinion," said 
Dr. Geddes, " that those who, for almost a century past, have written in 
Scotch, Allan Ramsay not excepted, have not duly discriminated the ge- 
nuine idiom from its vulgarisms. They seem to have acted a similar part 
to certain pretended imitators of Spenser and Milton, who fondly imagine 
that they are copying from these great models, when they only mimic their 
antique mode of spelling, their obsolete terms, and their irregular construc- 
tions." And although I cannot well guess what the doctor considered as 
the irregular constructions of Milton, there can be no doubt of the general 
justice of his observations. Ramsay and Ferguson were both men of hum- 
ble condition, the latter of the meanest, the former of no very elegant 
habits ; and the dialect which had once pleased the ears of kings, who 
themselves did not disdain to display its powers and elegances in verse, 
did not come untarnished through their hands. Ferguson, who was en- 
tirely town-bred, smells more of the Cowgate than of the country ; and 
pleasing as Ramsay's rustics are, he appears rather to have observed the 
surface of rural manners, in casual excursions to Pennycuikand the Hun- 
ters Tryste, than to have expressed the results of intimate knowledge and 
'y"^P^'^'\y- His dialect was a somewhat incongruous mixture of the Upper 
ward of Lanarkshire and the Luckenbooths ; and he could neither write 
English verses, nor engraft English phraseology on his Scotch, without be- 
frajring a lamentable >vant of skill in the use of his instrumenta. It was re< 

9 



I LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

served for Bums to interpret the inmost soul of the Scottish peasant In all 
its moods, and in verse exquisitely and intensely Scottish, without degrad- 
ing either his sentiments or his language with one touch of vulgarity. Such is 
the delicacy of native taste, and the power of a truly mascuhne .genius. ^ This 
is the more remarkable, when we consider that the dialect of Burns's na- 
tive district is, in all mouths but his own, a peculiarly offensive one. The 
few poets * whom the west of Scotland had produced in the old time, were 
all men of hi^h condition ; and who, of course, used the language, not of 
their own villages, buc of Holyrood. Their productions, moreover, m o 
far as they have been produced, had nothing to do with the peculiar cha- 
racter and feelings of the men of the we?t. As Burns himself has said,— 
*« It is somewhat singular, that in Lanark, Renfrew, Ap, &c. there is 
scarcely an old song or tune, which, from the title, &c. can be guessed to 
belong to, or be the production of, those counties." 

The history of Scottish literature, from the union of the crowns to that 
of the kingdoms, has not yet been made the subject of any separate work 
at all worthy of its importance ; nay, however much we are indebted to the 
learned labours of Pinkerton, Irving, and others, enough of the general ob- 
scurity of which Warton complained still continues, to the no small discre- 
dit of so accomplished a nation. But how miserably the literature of the 
country was afiected by the loss of the court under whose immediate pa- j 
tronage it luitl, in almost all preceding times, found a measure of protec- { 
tion that will ever do honour to the memory of the unfortunate house of 
Stuart, appears to be indicated with sufficient plainness in the single fact, ■ 
that no man can point out any Scottish author of the first rank in all the 
long period which intervened between Buchanan and Hume. The re- 
moval of the chief nobility and gentry, consequent on the Legislative Union, 
appeared to destroy our last hopes as a separate nation, possessing a se- 
parate literature of our own ; nay, ibr a time, to have all but extinguished 
the flame of iptellectual exertion and ambition. Long torn and harassed 
by religious and political feuds, this people had at last heard, as many be- 
lieved, the sentence of irremediable degradation pronounced by the lips of I 
their own ]irincc and parliament. The universal spirit of Scotland was i 
humbled; tlie unhappy insurrections of ]7ir> and 1745 revealed the full 
extent of her internal disunion ; and England took, in some respects, mer- 
ciless advantage of the fallen. 

Time, however, passed on ; and Scotland, recovering at last from the 
blow which had stunned her energies, began to vindicate her pretensions, 
in the onlj- departments which had been left open to her, with a zeal and 
a success which will ever distinguish one of the brightest pages of her his- 
tory. Deprived of eveiy national honour and distinction Mhich it Avas pos- 
sible to remove — all the high branches of external ambition lopped off, — 
sunk at last, as men thought, etfcctually into a province, willing to take 
law with passive submission, in letters as well as polity, from her powerful 
sister — the old kingdom revived suddenly from her stupor, and once more 
asserted her name in reclamations which England was compelled not only 
to hear, but to applaud, and " wherewith all Europe rung from side to 
side," at the" moment when a national poet came forward to profit by the 
reflux of a thousand half-forgotten sympathies — amidst the full joy of a na- 
tional pride revived and re-established beyond the dream of hope. 

» Such M Kennedy, Shaw, Montgomery, and, more lately, Hamilton of Gilbertfield. 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. H 

It will always reflect honour on the galaxy of eminent men of letters, 
who, in their various departments, shed lustre at that period on the name 
of Scotland, that they suffered no pedantic prejudices to interfere with 
their reception of Burns. Had he not appeared personally among them, 
it may be reasonably doubted whether this would have been so. They 
were men, generally speaking, of very social habits ; living together in a 
small capital ; nay, almost all of llien?, ai o " about one street, maintaining 
friendly intercourse continually ; not a few of them considerably addicted 
to the pleasures which have been called, by way of excellence, I presume, 
convivial. Burns's poetry might have procured him access to these circles ; 
but it was the extraordinary resources he displayed in conversation, the 
strong vigorous sagacity of his observations on life and manners, the splen- 
dour of his wit, and the glowing energy of his eloquence when his feelings 
were stirred, that made him the object of serious admiration among these 
practised masters of the arts of talk. There were several of them who 
probably adopted in their hearts the opinion of Newton, that " poetry is 
ingenious nonsense." Adam Smith, for one, could have had no very ready 
respect at the service of such an unproductive labourer as a maker of Scot- 
tish ballads ; but the stateliest of these philosophers had enough to do to 
maintain the attitude of equality, when brought into personal contact with 
Burns's gigantic understanding ; and every one of them whose impressions 
on the subject have been recorded, agrees in pronouncing his conversation 
to have been the most remarkable thing about him. And yet it is amus- 
ing enough to trace the lingering reluctance of some of these polished scho- 
lars, about admitting, even to themselves, in his absence, what it is cer- 
tain they all felt sufficiently when they were actually in his presence. It 
is difficult, for example, to read without a smile that letter of Mr. Dugald 
Stewart, in which he dcscriijcs himself and Mr. Alison as being surprised 
to discover that Burns, after reading the latter author's elegant Essay on 
Taste, had really been able to form some shrewd enough notion of the 
general principles of the association oi ideas. 

Burns would probably have been more satisfied with himself in these 
learned societies, had he been less addicted to giving free utterance in con- 
versation to the very feelings which formed the noblest inspirations of his 
poetry. His sensibility was as tremblingly exquisite, as his sense was 
masculine and solid ; and he seems to have ere long suspected that the pro- 
fessional metaphysicians who applauded his rapturous bursts, surveyed them 
in reality with something of the same feeling which may be supposed to 
attend a skilful surgeon's inspection of a curious specimen of morbid ana- 
tomy. Why should he lay his inmost heart thus open to dissectors, who 
took special care to keep the knife from their own breasts ? The secret 
blush that overspread his haughty countenance M-hen such suggestions oc- 
cured to him in his solitary hours, may be traced in the opening lines o( a 
diary which he began to keep ere he had been long in Edinburgli. " April 
9, 1787 — As I have seen a good deal of human life in Edinburgh, a 
great many characters which are new to one bred up in tlie shades of life, 
as I have been, I am determined to take down my remarks on the spot. 
Gray observes, in a letter to Mr, Palgravc, that, ' half a word fixed, upon, 
or near the spot, is worth a cart-load of recollection.' I don't know how 
it is with the world in general, but with me, making my remarks is by no 
means a solitary pleasure. I want some one to laugh with me, some one 
to be grave with me, some one to please me and help my discrimination, 



lii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

with his or licr oWn remark, and at times, no doubt, to admire my acute- 
ncss and penetration. The workl are so busied with selfish pursuits, am- 
bition, vanity, interest, or pleasure, that very few think it worth their while 
to make any observation on wliat passes around them, except where that 
observation is a sucker, or branch, of the darling plant they are rearing in 
their fancy. Nor am I sure, notwithstanding all the sentimental flights of 
novel-writers, and the sage philosophy of moralists, whether we are cap- 
able of so intimate and cordial a coalition of friendship, as that one man may 
pour out his bosom, his every thought and floating fancy, his very inmost 
soul, with unreserved confidence, to another, without hazard of losing part 
of that respect which man deserves from man ; or, from thp unavoidable 
imperfections attending human nature, of one day repenting his confidence. 
For these reasons I am determined to make these pages my confidant. 
I will sketch every character that any w-ay strikes me, to the best of my 
power, with unshrinking justice. I will insert anecdotes, and take down 
remarks, in the old law phrase, tvithovt feud or favour. — Where I hit on 
any thing clever, my own applause will, in some measure, feast my vanity • 
and, begging Patroclus' and Achates' pardon, I think a lock and key a se« 
curity, at least equal to the bosom of any friend whatever." And the same 
lurking thorn of suspicion peeps out elsewhere in this complaint : " I know 
not how it is ; I find I can win liking — but not respect." 

" Burns (says a great living poet, in commenting on the free st3'le of Dr. 
Currle) was a man of extraordinary genius, whose birth, education, and em- 
ployments had placed and kept him in a situation far below that in which the 
writers and readers of expensive volumes are usually found. Critics upon 
works of fiction have laid it down as a rule that remoteness of place, in 
fixing the choice of a subject, and in prescribing the mode of treating it, is 
equal in effect to distance of time ; — restraints may be thrown off accord- 
ingly. Judge then of the delusions which artificial distinctions impose, 
•when to a man like Dr. Currle, writing with views so honourable, the so- 
cial condition of the individual of whom he was treating, could seem to 
place him at such a distance from the exalted reader, that ceremony might 
DC discarded with him, and his memory sacrificed, as it were, almost %vith- 
out compunction. This is indeed to be crushed beneath the furrow's 
weight."* It would be idle to suppose that the feelings here ascribed, and 
justly, no question, to the amiable and benevolent Currle, did not often 
find their way into the bosoms of those persons of superior condition and 
attainments, with whom Burns associated at the period when he first e- 
merged into the blaze of reputation ; and what found its way into men's 
bosoms was not likely to avoid betraying itself to the perspicacious glance 
of the proud peasant. How perpetually he was alive to the dread of being 
looked down upon as a man, even by those who most zealously applauded 
the works of his genius, might perhaps be traced through the whole se- 
quence of his letters. When writing to men of high station, at least, he 
preserves, in every instance, the attitude of self-defence. But it is only 
m his own secret tables that we have the fibres of his heart laid bare ; and 
the cancer of this jealousy is seen distinctly at its painful work : habemus 
reum et cotiftentein. " There are few of the sore evils under the sun give 
me more uneasiness and chagrin than the comparison how a man of genius, 
nay, of avowed worth, is received everywhere, with the reception which a 

• J\Ir. Wordsworth's letter to a friend of Burns, p. 12, 



I 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Hil 

mere ordinary character, decorated with the trappings and futile distinc- 
tions of fortune, meets. I imagine a man of abilities, his breast glowing 
with honest pride, conscious that men are born equal, still giving honour 
to whom honour is due ; he meets, at a great man's table, a Squire some- 
thing, or a Sir somebody ; he knows the noble landlord, at heart, gives the 
bard, or whatever he is, a share of his good wishes, beyond, perhaps, any 
one at tabic ; yet how will it mortify him to see a fellow, whose abili- 
ties would scarcely have made an eightpenny tailor, and whose heart is not 
worth three farthings, meet with attention and notice, that are withheld 
from the son of genius and poverty ? The noble Glencairn has wounded 
me to the soul here, because I dearly esteem, respect, and love him. He 
showed so much attention — engrossing attention, one day, to the only 
blockhead at table, (the whole company consisted of his lordship, dunder- 
pate, and myself/, that I was within half a point of throwing down my gage 
of contemptuous defiance ; but he shook my hand, and looked so benevo- 
lently good at parting — God bless him ! though I should never see him 
more, I shall love him until my dying day ! I am pleased to think I am so 
capable of the throes of gratitude, as I am miserably deficient in some other 
virtues. With Dr. Blair I am more at my ease. 1 never respect him with 
humble veneration ; but when he kindly interests himself in my welfare, or 
still more, when he descends from his pinnacle, and meets me on equal 
ground in conversation, my heart overflows with what is called liking. 
When he neglects me for the mere carcass of greatness, or when his eye 
measures the diiference of our points of elevation, I say to myself, with 
scarcely any emotion, what do I care for him, or his pomp either ?" *« It 
is not easy (says Burns) forming an exact judgment of any one; but, in 
my opinion. Dr. Blair is merely an astonishing proof of what industry and 
application can do. Natural parts like his are frequently to be met with ; 
his vanity is proverbially known among his own acquaintances ; but he is 
justly at the head of what may be called fine writing, and a critic of the 
first, the very first rank in prost- ; even in poetry a bard of nature's mak- 
ing can only take the j)ass of inin. He has a heart, not of the very finest 
water, but far from being an ordinary one. In short, he is a truly worthy 
and most respectable character."^ 

A nice speculator on the ' follies of the wise,' D'Israeli, * says — " Once 
we were nearly receiving from the hand of genius the most curious sketches 
of the temper, the irascible humours, the delicacy of soul, even to its 
shadowiness, from the warm shozzos of Burns, when he began a diary of 
his heart — a narrative of characters and events, and a chronology of his 
emotions. It was natural for such a creature of sensation and passion to 
project such a regular task, b,ut quite impossible to get through it." This 
most curious document, it is to be observed, has not yet been printed en- 
tire. Another generation will, no doubt, see the whole of the confession ; 
however, what has already been given, it may be surmised, indicates suf- 
ficiently the complexion of Burns's prevailing moods during his moments 
of retirement at this interesting period of his history. It was in such a 
mood (they recurred often enough) that he thus reproached " Nature, par- 
tial nature :" — 

*' Thou j^vest the ass his hide, the snail his shell ; 
The iavenom'd wasp victorious guards his cell : 

• D'Israeli on the Literary Character, vol. i. p. 136, 



liv LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

liut, oh ! thou bitter stepmother, and hard. 

To thy poor fenceless nuKed child, the bard. . . 

In naked feeling and in aching pride, 

lie bears the unbroken blast Irom every side." 

No blast pierced this haughty soul so sharply as the contumely of conde- 
scension. 

One of the poet's remarks, when he first came to Edinburgh, has been 
handed down to us by Cromek — It was, " that between the men of rustic 
life and the polite world he observed little difference — that in the former, 
though unpolished by fashion aiul unenlightened by science, he had found 
much observation, and much intelligence — but a refined :md aeconipllshcd 
woman was a thing almost new to him, and of which he had iormed but a 
very inadequate idea." To be pleased, is the old and the best receipt how 
to please ; and there is abundant evidence that Ihuns's success, among the 
high-born ladies of lulinburgh, was much greater than among the " stately 
patricians," as he calls them, of his own sex. The vivid expression of one 
of them has almost become proverbial — that she never met Avith a man, 
" whose conversation so completely carried her oif her feet," as Burns's. 
The late Duchess of Gordon, who was remarkable fi)r her own conversa- 
tional talent, as well as for her beauty and address, is supposed to be here 
referred to. 15ut even here, he was destined to feel ere long something of 
the fickleness of fashion. He confessed to one of his old friends, ere the 
season was over, that some M'ho had caressed him the most zealously, no 
longer seonvnl to know him, when he bowed in passing their carriages, 
and many more acknowledged his salute but coldly. 

It is but too truo, that ere this season was over, Burns had fi)rmed con- 
nexions in Edinburgh which could not have been regarded with much ap- 
probation by the eminent, hiuvati, in whose .society his dehrit had made so 
powerful an impression. But how much of the blame, if serious blame, 
indeed, there was in the matter, ought to attach to his own fastidious jea- 
lousy — how much to the mere caj)rice of human favour, we have scanty 
means of ascertaining : No doubt, both had their share; and it is also suf- 
ficiently apparent that there were many points in Burns's conversational 
habits which men, accustomed to the delicate observances of refined so- 
ciety, might be more willing to tolerate under the first excitement of per- 
sonal curiosity, than from any very deliberate estimate of the claims of such 
a genius, under such circumstances developed. He by no means restricted 
his sarcastic observations on those whom he encountered in the world to 
the confidence of his note-book ; but startled jjolite ears with the utterance 
of audacious epigrams, far too witty not to obtain general circulation in so 
small a society as that of the northern capital, far too bitter not to produce 
deep resentment, far too numerous not to spread fear almost as widely as 
admiration. Even when nothing was farther from his thoughts than to in- 
flict pain, his ardour often carried him headlong into sad scrapes ; witness 
for example, the anecdote given by Professor Walker, of his entering into 
a long discussion of the merits of the popular preachers of the day, at the 
table of Dr. Blair, and enthusiasticidly avowing his low opinion of all the 
rest in comparison with Dr. Blair's own colleague * and most formidable 
rival — a man, certainly, endowed with extraordinary graces of voice and 
manner, a generous and amiable strain of feeling, and a copious flow of 
language ; but having no pretensions either to the general accomplishments 

• X>r. Robert Walkci. 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS, f^ 

for Rrhich Blair was honoured in a most accomplished society, or to the 
polished elegance which he first introduced into the eloquence of the Scot- 
tish pulpit. Mr. Walker well describes the unpleasing effects of such aa 
escapade ; the conversation during the rest of the evening, " labouring un- 
der that compulsory effort vvliich was unavoidable, while the thoughts of 
all were full of the only subject on which it was improper to speak." Burns 
showed his good sense by making no effort to repair this blunder ; but years 
afterwards, he confessed that he could never recall it without exquisite 
pain. Mr. Walker properly says, it did honour to Dr. Blair that his kind- 
ness remained totally unaltered by this occurrence ; but the Professor 
would have found nothing to admire in that circumstance, had he not been 
well aware of the rarity of such good-nature among the f/enus irritabile of 
authors, orators, and wits. 

A specimen (which some will think worse, some bettex*) is thus recorded 
by Cromek : — " At a private breakfast, in a literary circle of- Edinburgh, 
the conversation turncil on the poetical merit and pathos of Gray's £!legi/, 
a poem of which he was enthusiastically fond. A clergyman present, re- 
markable for his love of paradox and for his eccentric notions upon every 
subject, distinguished himself by an injudicious and ill-timed attack on this 
exquisite poem, which Burns, with generous warmth for the reputation of 
Gray, manfully defended. As the gentleman's remarks were rather gene- 
ral than specific, Burns urged Jiim to bring forward the passages which he 
thought exceptionable. He made several attempts to quote the poem, but 
always in a blundering, inaccurate manner. Burns borc^ Jill tliis for a good 
while with his usual good-natured forbearance, till at length, goaded by 
the fastidious criticisms and wri'tclicd quibblings of his opponent, he roused 
himself, and with an eye flashing contempt and indignation, and with great 
vehemence of gesticulation, he thus addressed the cold critic : — ' Sir, 1 now 
perceive a man may be an excellent judge of poetry by square and rule, 

and after all be a d d blockhead.' " — Another of the instances may be 

mentioned, which shew the poet's bluntness of manner, and how true the 
remark afterwards made by Mr. Ramsay is, that in the game of society he 
did not know when to play on or off. While the second edition of his Poems 
was passing through the press. Burns was favoured with many critical sug- 
gestions and amendments ; to one of which only he attended. Blair, read- 
ing over with him, or hearing him recite (which he delighted at all times 
in doing) his Holy Fair, stopped him at the stanza— 

Now a' the congregation o'er 

Is silent expectation, 
For Russel sjicl-Is the holy door 

Wi' tidings o' Salvation — 

Nay, saitl the Doctor, read damnation. Burns improved the wit of this 
verse, undoubtedly, by adopting the emendation ; but he gave another 
strange specimen of want of tact, when' he insisted that Dr. Blair, one of 
the most scrupulous observers of clerical propriety, should permit him to 
acknowledge the obligation in a note. 

But to pass from these trifles, it needs no effort of imagination to con- 
ceive what the sensations of an isolated set of scholars (almost all either 
clergymen or professors) must have been in the presence of this big-boned, 
black-browed, brawny stranger, with his great flashing eyes, who, having 
forced his way among them frgm the plough-tail at a gipgle stride, raani- 



Ivi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

fested, in the whole strain of his bearing and conversation, a most thorough 
conviction, that, in the society of the most eminent men of his nation, h6 
was exactly Avhere he was entitled to be ; hardly deigned to flatter them 
by exhibiting even an occasional symptom of being flattered by their no- 
tice ; by turns calmly measured himself against the most cultivated under- 
standings of his time in discussion ; overpowered the bon mots of the most 
celebrated convivialists by broad floods of merriment, impregnated with all 
the burning life of genius ; astounded bosoms habitually enveloped in the 
thrice-piled folds of social reserve, by compelling them to tremble — nay to 
tremble visibly — beneath the fearless touch of natural pathos ; and all this 
without indicating the smallest willingness to be ranked among those pro- 
fessional ministers of excitement, who are content to be paid in money and 
smiles for doing what the spectators and auditors would be ashamed of do- 
ing in tlicir own persons, even if they had the power of doing it ; and, — 
last and probably worst of all, — who was known to be in the habit of en- 
livening societies which they would have scorned to approach, still more 
frequently tlian their own, with eloquence no less magnificent ; with wit in 
all likelihood still more daring ; often enough, as the superiors whom he 
fronted without alarm might have guessed from the beginning, and had, 
ere long, no occasion to guess, with wit pointed at themselves. 

The lawyers of Edinburgh, in wliose wider circles Burns figured at his 
outset, with at least as much success as among the professional literati, 
were a very different race of men from these ; they would neither, I take 
it, have pardoned rudeness, nor been alarmed^by wit. But being, in those 
days, with scarcely an exception, members of the landed aristocracy of the 
country, and forming by far the most influential body (as indeed they still 
do) in the society of Scotland, they were, perhaps, as proud a set of men 
as ever enjoj^ed the tranquil pleasures of unquestioned superiority. What 
their haughtiness, as a body, v.as, may be guessed, when we know that in- 
ferior birth was reckoned a fair and legitimate ground for excluding any 
man from the bar. In one remarkable instance, about this very time, a 
man of very extraordinary talents and accomplishments was chiefly opposed 
in a long and painful struggle for admission, and, in reality, for no reasons 
but those I have been alluding to, by gentlemen who in the sequel stood 
at the very head of the Whig party in Edinburgh ; * and the same aristo- 
cratical prejudice has, within the memory of the present generation, kept 
more persons of eminent qualifications in the background, for a season, 
than any English reader would easily believe. To this body belonged 
nineteen out of twenty of those " patricians," whose stateliness Burns so 
long remembered and so bitterly resented. It might, perhaps, have been 
well for him had stateliness been the worst fault of their manners. Wine- 
bibbing appears to be in most regions a favourite indulgence with those 
whose brains and lungs are subjected to the severe exercises of legal study 
and forensic practice. To this day, more traces of these old habits linger 
about the inns of court than in any other section of London. In Dublin 
and Edinburgh, the barristers are even now eminently convival bodies of 
men ; but among the Scotch lawyers of the time of Burns, the principle of 
jollity was indeed in its " high and palmy state." He partook largely in 
those tavern scenes of audacious hilarity, which then soothed, as a matter 

" Mr. Jolin Wild, sqn of a Tobacconist in the High Street, Edinburgh. He came to be 
Professor of Civil law in that University ; but, in the end, was also a,n instance of uniiappv 
genius. 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ivn 

of course, the arid labours of the northern noblesse de la robe. The tavern- 
life is now-a-days nearly extinct every where ; but it was then in full 
vigour in Edinburgh, and there can be no doubt that Burns rapidly fami- 
liarized himself with it during his residence. He had, after all, tasted but 
rarely of such excesses while in Ayrshire. So little are we to consider 
his Scotch Drink, and other jovial strains of the early period, as conveying 
any thing like a fair notion of his actual course of life, that " Auld Nanse 
Tinnock," or " Poosie Nancie," the Mauchline landlady, is known to have 
expressed, amusingly enough, her surprise at the style in which she found 
her name celebrated in the Kihnarnock edition, saying, " that Robert 
Burns might be a very clever lad, but he certainly was regardless, as, to the 
best of her belief, he had never taken three half-mutchkins in her house in 
all his life." And in addition to Gilbert's testimony to the same purpose, 
we have on record that of Mr. Archibald Bruce, a gentleman of great 
worth and discernment, that he had observed Burns closely during that 
period of his life, and seen him " steadily resist such solicitations and al- 
lurements to excessive convivial enjoyinent, as hardly any other person could 
have withstood." — The unfortunate Heron knew Burns well ; and himself 
mingled largely in some of the scenes to v/hich he adverts in the following 
strong language : — " The enticements of pleasure too often unman our vir- 
tuous resolution, even while we wear the air of rejecting them with a stern 
brow. We resist, and resist, and resist ; but, at last, suddenly tui'n, and 
passionately embrace the enchantress. The hiichs of Edinburgh accom- 
phshed, in regard to Burns, that in which the boors of Ayrshire had failed. 
After residing some months in Edinburgh, he began to estrange himself, 
not altogether, but in some measure, from graver friends. Too many of 
his hours were now spent at the tables of persons who delighted to urge 
conviviality to drunkenness — in the tavern — and in the brothel." It Mould 
be idle now to attempt passing over tliese things in silence ; but it could 
serve no good purpose to dwell on them. During this ivinter. Burns con- 
tinued to lodge with John Richmond, indeed, to share his bed ; and we 
have the authority of this, one of the earliest and kindest friends of the 
poet, for the statement, that while he did so, " he kept good hours." He 
removed afterwards to the house of Mr. William NicoU, one of the teachers 
of the High School of Edinburgh. Nicoil was a man of quick parts and 
considerable learning — who had risen from a rank as humble as Burns's : 
from the beginning an enthusiastic admirer, and, ere long, a constant associ- 
ate of the poet, and a most dangerous associate ; for, with a warm heart, 
the man imited an irascible temper, a contempt of the religious institutions 
of his country, and an occasional propensity for the bottle. Of Nicoll's 
letters to Burns, and about him, I have seen many that have never been, 
and probably that never will be, printed — cumbrous and pedantic effusions, 
exhibiting nothing that one can imagine to have been pleasing to the poet, 
except a rapturous admiration of his genius. This man, nevertheless, was, 
I suspect, very far from being an unfavourable specimen of the society to 
which Heron thus alludes : — '* He (the poet) suffered himself to be sur- 
rounded by a race of miserable beings, who were proud to tell that they 
had been in company with Burns, and had seen Burns as loose and as 
foolish as themselves. He was not yet irrecoverably lost to temperance 
and moderation ; but he was already almost too much captivated with their 
wanton revels, to be ever more won back to a faithful attachment to their 
more sober charms." Heron adds — *' He now also began to contract some- 

10 



Iviii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

thing of new arrogance in conversation. Accustomed to be, among his 
favourite associates, what is vulgarly, but expressively called, the cock of 
the company, he could scarcely refrain from indulging in similar freedom 
and dictatorial decision of talk, even in the presence of persons who could 
less patiently endure his presumption ;" * an account ex facie probable, and 
which sufficiently tallies with some hints in Mr. Dugald Stewart's descrip- 
tion of the poet's manners, as he first observed him at Catrine, and with 
one or two anecdotes alread}' cited from Walker and Cromek. 

Of these failings, and indeed of all Burns's failings, it may be safely as- 
serted, that there was more in his history to account and apologize for 
them, than can be alleged in regard ro almost any other great man's imper- 
fections. We have seen, how, even in liis earliest days, the strong thirst 
of distinction glowed within him — how in his first and rudest rhymes he 
sung, 

'•' to be great is charming ;" 

and we have also seen, that the display of talent in conversation M'as the 
first means of distinction that occurred to him. It was by that talent that 
he first attracted notice among his fellow peasants, and after he mingled 
with the first Scotsmen of his time, this talent was still that ^vliich appear- 
ed the most astonishing of all he possessed. Wliat wonder that he should 
delight in exerting it where he could exert it the most freely — where there 
was no check upon a tongue that had been accustomed to revel in the li- 
cense of village-mastery ? where every sally, however bold, was sure to be 
received with triumphant applause — where there Mcre no claims to rival 
his — no proud brows to convey rebuke, above all, perhaps, no grave eyes 
to convey regret ? 

But these, assuredly, were not the only feelings that influenced Burns : 
In his own letters, written during his stay in Edinburgh, we have the best 
evidence to the contrary. He shrewdly suspected, from the very begin- 
ning, that the personal notice of the great and the illustrious was not to be 
as lasting as it was eager : he foresaw, that sooner or later he was destined 
to revert to societies less elevated above the pretensions of his birth ; and, 
though his jealous pride might huluce him to record his suspicions in lan- 
guage rather too strong tlian too v.eak, it i.3 quite impossible to read what 
he wrote without believing tliat a sincere distrust lay rankling at the roots 
of his heart, all the while that he appeared to be surrounded with an at- 
mosphere of joy and hope. On the l.'Jth of .January 1787, we find him 
thus addressing his kind patroness, ?ilrs. Dunlop : — " You are afraid I shall 
grow intoxicated with my prosperity as a poet. Alas ! Madam, I know 
myself and the world too well, i Cio not mean any airs of affected modesty ; 
I am willing to believe that my abilities deserved some notice ; but in a 
most enlightened, informed age and nation, when poetry is and has been 
the study of men of the first natural genius, aided with all the powers of 
polite learning, polite books, and polite company — to be dragged forth to 
the full glare of learned and polite obsc)\ation, Vvith all my imperfections 
of awkward rusticity, and crude unpolished ideas, on my head, — I assure 
you, Madam, I do not dissemble, when I tell you I tremble for the conse- 
quences. The novelty of a poet in my obscure situation, without any of 
those advantages which are reckoned necessary for that character, at least 

^* Heron, p. 28. 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. lix 

at this time of day, has raised a partial tide of public notice, which has 
borne me to a height where I am absolutely, feelingly certain, my abilities 
are inadequate to support me ; and too surely do I see that time, when the 
same tide will leave me, and recede perhaps as far below the mark of 
truth. ... I mention this once for all, to disburden my mind, and I 
do not wish to hear or say any more about it. But — ' When proud for- 
tune's ebbing tide recedes,' you v/ill bear me witness, that when my bubble 
of fame was at the highest, I stood unintoxicated with the inebriating cup 
in my hand, looking forward with rueful resolve." — And about the same 
time, to Dr. IMoore : — " The hope to be admired for ages is, in by far the 
greater part of those even v.-lio are authors of repute, an unsubstantial 
dream. For my part, my first ambition v/as, and still my strongest wish 
is, to please my compeers, the rustic imnates of the hamlet, while ever- 
changing language and manners shall allow me to be relished and under- 
stood. 1 am very willing to admit that I have some poetical abilities ; and 
as few, if any writers, either moral or poetical, are intimately acquainted 
Arith the classes of mankind among whom I have chiefly mingled, I may 
have seen men and maimers, in a diiferent phasis from what is common, 
which may assist originality of thought I scorn the affecta- 
tion of seeming modesty to cover self-conceit. That I have some merit, I 
do not deny ; but I see, witli frequent wringings of heart, that the novelty 
of my character, and the honest national prejudice of my countrymen, have 
borne me to a height altogether untenable to my abilities." — And lastly, 
April the 23cl, 17S7, we have the I'ollowing passage in a letter also to Dr. 
Moore : — " I leave lulinburgh in the course of ten days or a fortnight. I 
shall return to my rural shades, in all likelihood never more to quit them. 
I have formed many intimacies and friendships here, but I am afraid they are 
all of too tender a construction to bear carriage a hundred and fifty miles." 
One word more on the subject which introduced these quotations : — Mr. 
Dugald Stewart, no doubt, hints at what was a common enough complaint 
among the elegant literati of Edinburgh, when he alludes, in his letter to 
Currie, to the " not very select society" in which Burns indulged himself. 
But two points still remain somewhat doubtful ; namely, whether, show 
and marvel of the season as he was, the " Ayrshire ploughman" really had 
it in his power to live always in society which Mr. Stewart would have con- 
sidered as " very select ;" and secondly, whether, in so doing, he could 
have failed to chill the affection of those humble Ayrshire friends, who, hav- 
ing shared with him all that they possessed on his first arrival in the metro- 
polis, faithfully" and fondly adhered to him, after the springtide of fashion- 
able favour did, as he foresaw it would do, " recede ;" and, moreover, per- 
haps to provoke, among the higher circles themselves, criticisms more dis- 
tasteful to his proud stomach, than any probable consequences of the course 
of conduct which he actually pursued. The second edition of Burns's 
poems was published early in March, by Creech ; there were no less than 
1500 subscribers, many of whom paid more than the shop-price of the vo- 
lume. Although, therefore, the final settlement with the bookseller did not 
take place till nearly a year after, Burns now found himself in possession 
of a considerable sum of ready money ; and the first impulse of his mind 
was to visit some of the classic scenes of Scottish history and romance. He 
had as yet seen but a small part of his own country, and this by no means 
among the most interesting of her districts, until, indeed, his own poetry 
made it equal, on that score, to any other. — " The appellation of a Scottish 



Ix LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

bard is by far my highest pride ; to continue to deserve it, is my most ex- 
alted ambition. Scottish scenes, and Scottish stor}', are the themes I 
could wish to sing. I have no dearer aim than to have it in my power, 
unplagued with the routine of business, for which, Heaven knows, I am 
unfit enough, to make leisurely pilgrimages through Caledonia ; to sit on 
the fields of her battles, to wander on the romantic banks of her rivers, 
and to muse by the stately towers or venerable ruins, once the honoured 
abodes of her heroes. But these are Utopian views." * 

The magnificent scenery of the capital itself had filled him with extraor- 
dinary delight. In the spring mornings, he walked very often to the top of 
Arthur's Seat, and, lying prostrate on the turf, surveyed the rising of the 
sun out of the sea, in silent admiration ; his chosen companion on such oc- 
casions being that ardent lover of nature, and learned artist, I\Ir. Alexander 
Nasmyth. It was to this gentleman, equally devoted to the fine arts, as to 
liberal opinions, tlwt Burns sat for the portrait engraved to Creech's edi- 
tion, and which is here repeated. Indeed, it has been so often repeated, and 
has become so familiar, that to omit it now would be felt as a blank equal 
almost to the leaving out of one of the principal poems. The poet's dress 
has also been chronicled, remarkably as he then appeared in the first hey- 
day of his reputation, — blue coat and buff vest, with blue stripes, (the 
Whig-liverjf), very tight buckskin breeches, and tight jockey boots. 

The Braid hills, to the south of Edinburgh, were also among his favourite 
morning walks ; and it was in some of these that Mr. Dugald Stewart tells 
us, " he charmed him still more by his private conversation than he had 
ever done in company." " lie was," adds the professor, '' passionately fond 
of the beauties of nature, and I recollect once he told me, when I was ad- 
miring a distant prospect in one of our morning walks, that the sight of so 
many smoking cottages gave a pleasure to his mind which none could un- 
derstand who had not witnessed, like himself, the happiness and the worth 
M-hich they contained." Burns was far too busy with society and observa- 
tion to find time for poetical composition, during his first residence in 
Edinburgh. Creech's edition included some pieces of great merit, which 
had not been pi*eviously printed ; but, with the exception of the Address to 
Edinburgh, all of them appear to have been written before he left Ayrshire. 
Several of them, indeed, were very early productions : The most important 
additions were. Death and Doctor Hornuooh, The BrUjH of Ayr, The Ordi- 
nation, and the Address to the unco Quid, in this edition also, When Guild- 
ford guid our pilot stood, made its first appearance. 

The evening before he quitted Edinburgh, the poet addressed a let- 
ter to Dr. Blair, in which, taking a most respectful farewell of him, and 
expressing, in lively terms, his sense of gratitude for the kindness he had 
shown him, he thus recurs to his own views of his own past and future con- 
dition : " I have often felt the embarrassment of my singular situation. 
Plowever the meter- like novelty of my appearance in the world might at- 
tract notice, I knew very well, that my utmost merit was far unequal to 
the task of preserving that character when once the novelty was over. I 
have made up my mind, that abuse, or almost even neglect, ivill not sur- 
prise me in my quarters." 

It ought not to be omitted, that our poet bestowed some of the first firuits 
pf Creech's edition in the erection of a decent tombstone over the hitherto 

^ * Letter to Mrs, Dunlop, Edinburgh, 22d March 1787. 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



1x1 



neglected remains of his unfortunate predecessor, Robert Ferguson, in the 
Canongate churchyard. It seems also due to him here to insert his Address 
to Edinburgh, — so graphic and comprehensive, — as the proper record of 
the feehngs engendered in his susceptible and grateful mind by the kind- 
ness shown to him, in his long visit, and under which feehngs he was now 
about to quit it for a time. 



ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH. 



EoiNA ! Scotia^s darling seat ! 

All hail thy palaces and towers. 
Where once beneath a monarch's feet 

Sat legislation's sovereign pow'rs ! 
From marking wildly-scatter'd flowers, 

As on the banks of Ai/r I stray'd, 
And singing, lone, the lingermg hours, 

I shelter in thy honour'd shade. 

Here wealth still swells the golden tide, 

As busy trade liis labours plies ; 
There architecture's noble pride 

Bids elegance and splendour rise ; 
Here justice, from her native skies. 

High wields her balance and her rod ; 
There learning, with his eagle eyes, 

Seeks science in her coy abode. 

Thy sons, Edina, social, kind, 

With open arms the stranger hail ; 
Their views enlarged, their liberal mind, 

Above the narrow, rural vale ; 
Attentive still to sorrow's wail, 

Or modest merit's silent claim ; 
And never may their sources fail ! 

And never envy blot their hame. 

Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn ! 

Gay as the gilded summer's sky, 
^weet as the dewy milk-white thorn, 

Dear as the raptured thrill of joy ! 
Fait Burnet strikes th' adoring eye, 

Heav'n's beauties on my fancy shine : 
I see the sire of love oh high, 

And own his work indeed divine ! 



There, watching hi^h the least alarms, 

Thy rough rude fortress gleams afar : 
Like some bold vet'ran grey in arms. 

And mark'd with many a seamy scar : 
The pon'drous wall and massy bar. 

Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock : 
Have oft withstood assailing war, 

And oft repell'd th' invader's shock. 

With awe-struck thought and pitying tears. 

I view that noble, stately dome. 
Where Scotia's kings of other years, 

Famed heroes, had their royal home. 
Alas ! how changed the tunes to come ! 

Their royal name low in the dust ; 
Their hapless race wild-wand'ring roam ! 

The' rigid law cries out, 'twas just ! 

Wild beats my heart to trace your steps, 

Whose ancestors in days of yore. 
Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps 

Old Scotia's bloody lion bore : 
E'en / who sing in rustic lore. 

Haply viy sires have left their shed, 
And faced griin dangei's loudest roar. 

Bold following where your fathers led ! 

EniNA ! Scotitfs darling seat ! 

All hail thy palaces and tow'rs. 
Where once beneath a monarch's feet 

Sat legislation's sov'reign pow'rs ! 
From marking wildly-scatter'd flowers, 

As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd. 
And singing, lone, the Hng'ring hours, 

I shelter in thy honour'd shade. 



CHAPTER VI. 

CoNTHNTB Makes three several pilgrimages in Caledonia — Lands from the first of them, 

after an absence of six moyiths, amongst his friends in the " AulJ Clay Biggin" — Finds 
honour in his own country — Falls in with many kind friends during those pilgrimages, and 
ii familiar with the great, hut never secures one effective patron — Anecdotes and Sketches — 
Lingers in Edinburgh amidst the Jleslq." ts, winter ) 7S7-8 — Upset in a hackney coach^ 
which produces a bruised Umli, and mournful musings for six iccehs — Is enrolled in the Fx- 
cise — Another crisis, in which the Poet Jinds it necessary to implore even his friend Mrs. 
Dunlop not to desert hi7n — Grotcls over his publisher, but after settling xeith him leaves 
JEdinhurgh with ;£500 — Steps towards a more regular life. 



" Rainaay and famous Ferp;uson, 
(iied l''ortJi and Tay a lift aboon ; 
Yarrow and Tweed to monie a tune 

Thro' Scothind rings, 
While Irvine, Lugar, Ayr, and Doon, 

JS'aebody sings." 

On the 6th of May, Burns left Edinburgh, in company with Mr. Robert 
Ainshe, Writer to the Signet, the son of a proprietor in Berwickshire — 
Among otlier changes " v/hich Meeting time procurcth," this amiable gen- 
tleman, wliose youthful gaiety made him a chosen associate of Burns, is now 
chiefly known as the author of some J.Ianuals of Devotion. — They had 
formed the design of perambulating the picturesque scenery of the south- 
ern border, and in particular of visiting the localities celebrated by the 
old minstrels, of whose works Burns was a passionate admirer. 

This was long before the time when those fields of Scottish romance were 
to be made accessible to the curiosity of citizens by stage-coaches ; and 
Burns and his friend performed their tour on horseback ; the former being 
mounted on a favourite mare, whom he had named Jenny Geddes, in ho- 
nour of the good woman who threw her stool at the Dean of Edinburgh's 
head on the "-i'-id of July 1()37, when the attempt was made to introduce a 
Scottish Liti/rf/i/ into the service of St. Giles's. The merits of the trusty 
animal have been set forth by the poet in very expressive and humorous 
terms, in a letter to his friend Nicoll while on the road, and which will be 
found entire in the Correspondence. He writes : — " My auld ga'd gleyde 
o' a meere has huchyalled up hill and down brae, as touch and birnie as a 
vera devil, wi' me. It's true she's as puir's a sangmaker, and as hard's a 
kirk, and lipper-Iaipers when she takes the gate, like a lady's gentlewoman 
in a minuwae, or a hen on a het girdle ; but she's a j'auld poutherin girran 
for a' that. When ance her ringbanes and pavies, her cruiks and cramps, 
are fairly soupled, she beets to, beets to, and aye the hindmost hour the 
lightest," «S:c. &c. 

Burns passed from Edinburgh to Berrywell, the residence of Mr. Ainslie's 
family, and visited successively Dunse, Coldstream, Kelso, Fleurs, and the 
ruins of Roxburgh Castle, near which a holly bush still marks the spot on 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixlii 

which James II. of Scotland was killed by the bursting of a cannon. Jedburgh 
— ^where he admired the " charming romantic situation of the town, with gar- 
dens and orchards intermingled among the houses of a once magnificent ca- 
thedral (abbey) ;" and was struck, (as in the other towns of the same district), 
with the appearance of " old rude grandure," and the idleness of decay ; 
Melrose, " that far-famed glorious ruin," Selkirk, Ettrick, and the braes of 
Yarrow. Having spent three weeks in this district, of which it has been 
justly said, " that every field has its battle, and every rivulet its song," 
Burns passed the Border, and visited Alnwick, Warkworth, Morpeth, New- 
castle, Hexham, Wardrue, and Carlisle. He then turned northwards, and 
rode by Annan and Dumfries to Dalswinton, where he examined Mr. 
Miller's property, and was so much pleased Avith the soil, and the terms 
on which the landlord was willing to grant him a lease, that he resolved to 
return again in the course of the summer. 

The poet visited, in the course of his tour. Sir James Hall of Dunglas, 
author of the well-known Essaij on Gothic Architecture, &c. ; Sir Alexander 
and Lady Harriet Don, (sister to his patron. Lord Glencairn), at Newton- 
Don ; Mr. Brydone, the author of Travels in Sicily ; the amiable and 
learned Dr. Somerville of Jedburgh, the historian of Queen Anne, &c. ; and, 
as usual, recorded in his journal his impressions as to their manners and 
characters. His reception was everywhere most flattering. The sketch 
of his tour is a very brief one. It runs thus : — 

" Saturday, May 6. Left Edinburgh — Lammer-muir hills, miserably 
dreary in general, but at times very picturesque. 

" Lanson-edge, a glorious view of the Merse. Reach Berrywell. . . 
The family-meeting with my compagnon de voyage, very charming ; parti- 
cularly the sister. 

" Sunday. Went to church at Dunse. Heard Dr. Bowmakcr. 

" Monday. Coldstream — glorious river Tweed — clear and majestic — 
fine bridge — dine at Coldstream with jNIr. Ainslie and Mr. Foreman. Beat 
Mr. Foreman in a dispute about Voltaire. Drink tea at Lennel-House with 
Mr. and Mrs. Brydone. . . . Reception extremely flattering. Sleep at 
Coldstream. 

" Tuesday. Breakfast at Kelso — charming situation of the town — fine 
bridge over the Tweed. Enchanting views and prospects on botli sides of 
the river, especially on the Scotch side. . . . Visit Roxburgh Palace 
— fine situation of it. Ruins of Roxburgh Castle — a hoUy bush growing 
where .lames the Second was accidentally killed by the bursting of a can- 
non. A small old religious ruin and a fine old garden jilanted by the reli- 
gious, rooted out and destroyed by ii Hottentot, a maitre d hotel of the 
Duke's ! — Climate and soil of Berwickshire, and even Roxburghshire, su- 
perior to Ayrshire — bad roads — turnip and sheep husbandry, their great 
improvements. . . . Low markets, consequently low lands — magnifi- 
cence of farmers and farm-houses. Come up the Tcviot, and up the Jed 
to Jedburgh, to lie, and so wish myself good night. 

" Wednesday. Breakfast with Mr. Fair. . . . Charming romantic 
situation of Jedburgh, with gardens and orchards, intermingled among the 
houses and the ruins of a once magnificent cathedral. All the towns here 
have the appearance of old rude grandeur, but extremely idle. — Jed, a fine 
romantic little river. Dined with Capt. Rutherford, . . . return to 
Jedburgh. Walkfed up the Jed with some ladies to be shown Love-lane, 
and Blackburn, two fairy scenes. Introduced to IMr. Potts, writer, and to 



\\W LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

Mr. Somcrvllle, the dergj man of the parish, a man, and a gentleman, but 
sadly addicted to punning. 

• • ) 

« Jedburgh, Saturdin/. Was presented by the Magistrates with the free- 
dom of the town. Took farewell of Jedburgh, with some melancholy sen- 
sations. 

«' Monday, May 14, Kelso. Dine with the farmer's club— all gentlemen 
talking of high matters — each of them keeps a hunter from £30 to £50 
value, and attends the fox-hunting club in the country. Go out with Mr. 
Ker, one of the club, and a friend of Mr. Ainslie's, to sleep. In his mind 
and manners, JNIr. Ker is astonishingly like my dear old friend Robert Muir 
— Every thing in his house elegant. He offers to accompany me in my 
English tour. 

" Tuesday. Dine Avith Sir Alexander Don ; a very wet day. . . . 
Sleep at Mr, Ker's again, and set out next day for Melrose — visit Dryburgh, 
a fine old ruined abbey, by the way. Cross the Leader, and come up the 
Tweed to Melrose. Dine there, and visit that far-famed glorious ruin — 
Come to Selkirk up the banks of Ettrick. The whole country hereabouts, 
both on Tweed and Ettrick, remarkably stony." 

He wrote no verses, as far as is known, during this tour, except a humor- 
ous Epistle to his bookseller, Creech, dated Selkirk, L3th May. In this 
he makes complimentary allusions to some of the men of letters who were 
used to meet at breakfast in Creech's apartments in those days — whence 
the name of Creeclis Levee ; and touches, too, briefly on some of the sce- 
nery he had visited. 

" Up wimpling stately Tweed I've sped, 
And Eden scenes on crystal Jed, 
And Ettrick banks now roaring red, 

While tempests blaw." 

Burns returned to Mauchline on the'Sth of July. It is pleasing to imagine 
the delight with which lie must have been received by the family after the 
absence of six months, in which his fortunes and prospects had undergone 
so wonderful a change. He left them comparatively unknown, his tender- 
est feelings torn and wounded by the behaviour of the Armours, and so 
miserably poor, that he had been for some weeks obliged to skulk from the 
Sheriff's officers, to avoid the payment of a paltry debt. He returned, 
his poetical fame established, the whole country ringing with his praises, 
from a capital in which he was known to have formed the wonder and de- 
light of the polite and the learned ; if not rich, yet with more money al- 
ready tlian any of his kindred had ever hoped to see him possess, and with 
prospects of future patronage and permanent elevation in the scale of so- 
ciety, which might have dazzled steadier eyes than those of maternal and 
fraternal affection. The prophet had at last honour in his own country : 
but the haughty spirit that had preserved its balance in Edinburgh, was 
not likely to lose it at Mauchline ; and we have him writing from the auld 
clay biggin on the 18th of June, in terms as strongly expressive as any 
that ever came from his pen, of that jealous pride which formed the ground- 
work of his character ; that dark suspiciousness of fortune, which the sub- 
sequent course of his history too well justified ; that nervous intolerance of 
condescension, and consummate scorn of meanness, which attended him 
through life, and made the study of his species, for which nature had given 
him such extraordinary qualifications, the source of more pain than wag 



LIPE OF ROBERT BURNS. kv 

ever counterbalanced by the exquisite capacity for enjoyment with which 
he was also endowed. There are few of his letters in which more of the 
dark traits of his spirit come to light than in the following extract : — 
*' I never, my friend, thought mankind capable of any thing very gene- 
rous ; but the stateliness of the patricians of Edinburgh, and the servility 
of my plebeian brethren, (who, perhaps, formerly eyed me askance), since I 
returned home, have nearly put me out of conceit altogether with my spe- 
cies. I have bought a pocket-Milton, which I carry perpetually about me, 
in order to study the sentiments, the dauntless magnanimity, the intrepid 
unyielding independence, the desperate daring, and noble defiance of hard- 
ship, in that great personage — Satan. . . . The many ties of acquaintance 
and friendship I have, or think I have, in life — I have felt along the lines, 
and, d — n them, they are almost all of them of such frail texture, that I 
am sure they would not stand the breath of the least adverse breeze of 
fortune." 

Among those who now appeared sufficiently ready to court his society, 
were the family of Jean Armour. Burns's regard for this affectionate young 
woman had outlived his resentment of her father's disavowal of him in the 
preceding summer ; and from the time of this reconciliation, it is probable 
he looked forward to a permanent union with the mother of his children. 

Burns at least fancied himself to be busy with serious plans for his fu- 
ture establishment ; and was very naturally disposed to avail himself, as far 
as he could, of the opportunities of travel and observation, which an inter- 
val of leisure might present. Moreover, in spite of his gloomy language, a 
specimen of which has just been quoted, we are not to doubt that he de- 
rived much pleasure from witnessing the extensive popularity of his writ- 
ings, and from the flattering homage he was sure to receive in his own per- 
son in the various districts of his native country ; nor can any one wonder 
that, after the state of high excitement in which he had spent the winter 
and spring, he, fond as he was of his family, and eager to make them par- 
takers in all his good fortune, should have, just at this time, found himself 
incapable of sitting down contentedly for any considerable period together, 
in so humble and quiet a circle as that of IMossgiel. His appetite for wan- 
dering appears to have been only sharpened by his Border excursion. After 
remaining a few days at home, he returned to Edinburgh, and thence pro- 
ceeded on another short toiy, by way of Stirling, to Invcrary, and so back 
again, by Dumbarton and Glasgow, to Mauchline. Of this second excur- 
sion, no journal has been discovered ; nor do the extracts from his corres- 
pondence, printed by Dr. Currie, appear to be worthy of much notice. In 
one, he briefly describes the West Highlands as a country " where savage 
streams tumble over savage mountains, thinly overspread with savage flocks, 
which starvingly support as savage inhabitants :" and in another, he gives 
an account of Jenny Geddes running a race afiei- dinner with a Highlander's 
pony — of his dancing and drinking till sunrise at a gentleman's house on 

Loch Lomond ; and of other similar matters *' I have as yet," says he, 

" fixed on nothing with respect to the serious business of life. I am, just 
as usual, a rhyming, mason-making, raking, aimless, idle fellow. However, 
I shall somewhere have a farrh soon." 

In the course of this tour. Burns visited the mother and sisters of his 
friend, Gavin Hamilton, then residing at Harvieston, in Clackmannanshire, 
in the immediate neighbourhood of the magnificent scenery of Castle Camp- 
bell, and the vale of Devon. Castle Campbell, called otherwise the CatUc 

11 



ixii LUPE OP ROBERT BURNS. 

of Gloom, IS grandly situated in & gorge of the Oclillls, cbmrnatidlng kn 
extensive view of the plain of Stirling. This ancient possession of the 
Argyll family was, in some sort, a town-residence of those chieftains in the 
days when the court was usually held at Stirling, Linlithgow, or Falkland. 
The castle was burnt by Montrose, and has never been repaired. The 
Cauldron Linn and Rumbling Brigg of the Devon lie near Castle Camp- 
bell, on the verge of the plain. He was especially delighted with one of 
the young ladies ; and, according to his usual custom, celebrated her in 
a song, in which, in opposition to his general custom, there is nothing but 
the respectfulness of admiration. 

How pleasant the banks of the clear-winding Devon, 
With green spreading bushes, and flowers blooming fair ; 

But the bonniest flower on the banks of the Devon 
Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr. 

Wild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower, 

In the gay rosy morn as it bathes in the dew ! 
And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower, 

That steals on the evening each leaf to renew. 

O spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes. 

With chill hoary wing as ye usher the dawn ! 
And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes 

The verdure and pride of the garden "and lawn ! 

Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lilies. 

And England triumphant display her proud rose ; 
A fairer than either adorns the green valleys. 

Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows. 

At Hai-viestonbank, also, the poet first became acquainted with Miss 
Chalmers, afterwards Mrs. Hay, to '.vhom one of the most interesting se- 
ries of his letters is addressed. Indeed, with the exception of his letters to 
Mrs. Dunlop, there is, perhaps, no part of his correspondence which may 
be quoted so uniformly to his honour. It was on this expedition that, 
having been visited with a high flow of Jacobite indignation while viewing 
the neglected palace at Stirling, he wds imprudent enough to write some 
verses bitterly vituperative of the reigning family on the window of his 
inn. These verses were copied and talked of; and although the next time 
Burns passed through Stirling, he himself broke the pane of glass contain- 
ing them, they were remembered years afterwards to his disadvantage, and 
even danger — As these verses have never appeared in any edition of his 
works hitherto published in Britain, we present them to our readers as a 
literary curiosity. 

Here once in triumph Stuarts reign'd. 
And laws for Scotia well ordain'd ; 
But now unroof 'd their palace stands ; 
Their sceptre's sway'd by other hands. 

The injured Stuart line is gone, 

A race outlandish fills the throne ; — 

An idiot race, to honour lost, 

Who know them best, despise them naost 

The young ladies of Harvieston were, according to Dr. Carrie, surprised 
with the calm manner in which Burns contemplated their fine scenery on 
Devon water; and the Doctor enters into a little dissertation on the subject, 
■hewing that a man of Burns's lively imagination might probably have form- 
fd anticipations which the realities of the prospect might rather disappoint, 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. hril 

This Is possible enough ; but I suppose few will take it for granted that 
Burns surveyed any scenes either of beauty or of grandeur without emo- 
tion, merely because he did not choose to be ecstatic for the benefit ot a 
company of young hidies. He was indeed very impatient of interruption 
on such occasions : riding one dark night near Carron, his companion teased 
liim with noisy exclamations of delight and wonder, whenever an opening 
in the wood permitted them to see the magnificent glare of the furnaces ; 
*' Look, Burns ! Good Heaven ! look ! look ! what a glorious sight !" — 
" Sir," said Burns, clapping spurs to Jenny Geddes, " I would not look! 
look ! at your bidding, if it were the mouth of hell !" 

Burns spent the month of July at Mossgiel ; and Mr. Dugald Stewart, 
in a letter to Currie, gives some recollections of him as he then appeared : 
— " Notwithstanding the various reports I heard during the preceding win- 
ter of Burns's predilection for convivial, and not very select society, I 
should have concluded in favour of his habits of sobriety, from all of him 
that ever fell under my own observation. He told me indeed himself, that 
the weakness of his stomach was such as to deprive him entirely of any 
merit in his temperance. I was, however, somewhat alarmed about the 
effect of his nov/ comparatively sedentary and luxurious life, when he con- 
fessed to me, the first night he spent in my house after his winter's cam- 
paign in town, that he had been much disturbed when in bed, by a palpi- 
tation at his heart, which, he said, was a complaint to which he had of late 
become subject. In the course of the same season I was led by curiosity 
to attend for an hour or two a Masonic Lodge in Mauchline, where Burns 
presided. He had occasion to make some short unpremeditated com- 
])liments to different individuals from whom he had no reason to expect a 
visit, and every thing he said was happily conceived, and forcibly as well 
as fluently expressed. His manner of speaking in public had evidently the 
marks of some practice in extempore elocution." 

In August, Burns revisited Stirlingshire, in company with Dr. Adair, of 
Harrowgate, and remained ten days at Harvieston. He was received with 
particular kindness at Ochtertyre, on the Teith, by Mr. Ramsay (a friend 
of Blacklock), whose beautiful retreat he enthusiastically admired. His 
host was among the last of those old Scottish Laliuists who began with Bu- 
chanan. Mr. Ramsay, among other eccentricities, had sprinkled the walls 
of his house with Latin inscriptions, some of them highly elegant ; and 
tliese particularly interested Burns, who asked and obtained copies and 
translations of them. This amiable man (another Monkbarns) was deeply 
read in Scottish antiquities, and the author of some learned essays on the 
elder poetry of his country. His conversation must have delighted any 
man of talents ; and Burns and he were mutually charmed with each other. 
Ramsay advised him strongly to turn his attention to the romantic drama, 
and proposed the Gentle Shepherd as a model : he also urged him to write 
Scottish Georgics, observing that Thomson had by no means exhausted that 
field. He appears to have relished both hints. " But," says Mr. R. " to 
have executed either plan, steadiness and abstraction from company were 
wanting." — Mr. Ramsay thus writes of Burns : — " I have been in the com- 
pany of many men of genius, some of them poets ; but I never Avitnessed 
such flashes of intellectual brightness as from him, the impulse of the mo- 
ment, sparks of celestial fire. I never was more delighted, therefore, thaii 
with his company two days tete-a-tete. In a mixed company I should have 
made little of him ; for, to use a gamester's phrase, he did not always know 



Ixvlli LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

when to play off and when to play on. When I asked hhii whether the 
Edinburgh literati had mended his poems by their criticisms — * Sir,* said 
he, ' those gentlemen remind me of some spinsters in my country, who spin 
their thread so fine that it is neither fit for weft nor woof.' " 

At Clackmannan Tower, the Poet's jacobitism procured him a hearty 
welcome from the ancient lady of the place, who gloried in considering 
herself a lineal descendant of Robert Bruce. She bestowed on Burns knight- 
hood with the touch of the hero's sword ; and delighted him by giving as 
her toast after dinner, Hooki nncos, away strangers!— a shepherd's cry 
when strange sheep mingle in the flock. At Dunfermline the poet betray- 
ed deep emotion, Dr. Adair tells us, on seeing the grave of the Bruce ; but, 
passing to another mood on entering the adjoining church, he mounted the 
pulpit, and addressed his companions, who had, at his desire, ascended the 
cuttystool, in a parody of the rebuke which he had himself undergone some 
time before at Mauchline. From Dunfermline the poet crossed the Frith of 
Forth to Edinburgh ; and forthwith set out with his friend Nicoll on a more 
extensive tour than he had as yet undertaken, or was ever again to under- 
take. Some fragments of his journal have recently been discovered, and 
are now in my hands ; so that I may hope to add some interesting particu- 
lars to the accout of Dr. Currie. The travellers hired a post-chaise for 
their expedition — the schoolmaster being, probably, no very skilful eques- 
trian. 

" August 25tli, 1787 — This day," says Burns, " I leave Edinburgh for . 
a tour, in company with my good friend, Mr. Nicoll, whose originality of 
humour promises me much entertainment. — L'mlUhgoiv A fertile im- 
proved country is West Lothian. The more elegance and luxury among 
the farmers, I always observe, in equal proportion, the rudeness and stupi- 
dity of the peasantry. This remark 1 have made all over the Lothians, 
Merse, Roxburgh, &c. ; and for this, among other reasons, I think that a 
man of romantic taste, ' a man of feeling,' will be better pleased with the 
poverty, but intelligent minds of the peasantry of Ayrshire, (peasantry they 
are all, below the Justice of Peace), than the opulence of a club of Merse 
farmers, when he, at the same time, considers the Vandalism of their plough- 
folks, &c. I carry this idea so far, that an uninclosed, unimproved coun- 
try is to me actually more agreeable as a prospect, than a country culti- 
vated like a garden." 

It was hardly to be expected that Robert Burns should have estimated 
the wealth of nations on the principles of a, political economist ; or that 
with him the greatest possible produce, — no matter how derived, — was to 
be the paramount principle. But, where the greatness and happiness of a 
people are concerned, perhaps the inspirations of the poet may be as safely 
taken for a guide as the inductions of the political economist : — 

From scenes like these old Scolia'x grandeur springs, 

That makes her loved at home, revered abroad : 
Princes and lords are but the breatli of kings, 

" An honest man's the noblest work of God !" 
And ceric.1, in fair nrtue's hcav'nly road, 

The cottage leaves the ywfacc far behind ; 
What is a lordling's pomp ! a cumbrous load. 

Disguising oft the wretch of human kind. 
Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined ; 
O Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! 

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent 
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil, 

Vk blest with healthy and peace, and sweet content J 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. hat 

And, O I niity Heav'n their simple lives prevent 

From Luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! 
Then, howe'er CJ-oxvm and coroncli be rent, 

A virtuous popi/lacc may rise the while, 
And stand a wall of lire around their much-loved Isle. 

Of Linlithgow the poet says, " the town carries the appearance of rude, 
decayed, idle grandeur — charmingly rural retired situation — the old Royal 
Palace a tolerably fine but melancholy ruiu — sweetly situated by the brink 
of a loch. Shown the room where the beautiful injured Mary Queen of 
Scots was born. A pretty good old Gothic church — the infamous stool of 
repentance, in the old Komish way, on a lofty situation. What a poor 
pimping business is a Presbyterian place of worship ; dirty, narrow, and 
squalid, stuck in a corner of old Popish grandeur, such as Linlithgow, and 
much more Melrose ! Ceremony and show, if judiciously thrown in, are ab- 
solutely necessary for the bulk of mankind, both in religious and civil mat- 
ters " 

At Bannockburn he writes as follows : — " Here no Scot can pass unin- 
terested. I fancy to myself that 1 see my gallant countrymen coming over 
the hill, and down upon the plunderers of their country, the murderers of 
their fathers, noble revenge and just hate glowing in every vein, striding 
more and more eagerly as they approach the oppressive, insulting, blood- 
thirsty foe. I see them meet in glorious triumphant congratulation on the 
victorious field, exulting in their heroic royal leader, and rescued liberty 
and independence." — Here we have the germ of Burns's famous ode on the 
battle of Bannockburn. 

At Taymouth, the Journal merely has — " dcscrwed m rhyme." This al- 
ludes to tlie " verses written v/ith a pencil over the mantle-piece of the 
parlour in the inn at Kenmore ;" some of which are among his best purely 
English heroics — 

" Poetic ardours in my besom swell, 
Lone wandering by tiie hermit's mossy cell ; 
The sweeping theatre of hanging woods ; 
The incessant roar of headlong-tumbling floods .... 
Here Poesy might wake her heaven-taught lyre, 
And look througii nature with creative lire .... 
Here, to the wrongs of fate half reconciled, 
Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander wild ; 
And Disappointment, in tnese lonely bounds, 
Find balm to sootlie her bitter rankling wounds ; 
Here lieart-struck Grief might heavenward stretch her scan, 
And injured Worth forget ar.d pardon man." 

Of Glenlyon we have this memorandum : — " Druids' temple, three cir- 
cles of stones, the outermost sunk, the second has thirteen stones remain- 
ing, the innermost eight ; two large detached ones like a gate to the south- 
east — say prayers on it." 

His notes on Punkeld and Blair of Athole are as follows : — " Dunkeld 
— Breakfast Avith Dr. Stuart — Neil Gow plays ; a short, stout-built, High- 
land figure, with his greyish hair shed on his honest social brow — an inte- 
resting face, marking strong sense, kind openheartedness mixed with 
unmistrusting simplicity — visit his house — Margaret Gow. — Friday — 
ride up Tummel river to Blair. Fascally, a beautiful romantic nest — wild 
grandeur of the pass of Killikrankie — visit the gallant Lord Dundee's stone. 
— Blair — sup with the Duchess — easy and happy from the manners of 

that family — confirmed in my good opinion of my friend Walker SatUT' 

day — visit the scenes round 131air — fine, but spoilt with bad taste." 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURiNS. 

Mr. Walker, who, as ^v^i Inive seen, formed Burru's acquaintance in 
Edinburgh through Blacklock, was at this period tutor iu the family of 
Athole, and from him the following particulars of Burns's reception at the 
seat of his noble patron are derived : — " On reaching Blair, he sent me no- 
tice of his arrival (as I had been previously acquainted with him), and I 
hastened to meet him at the inn. The Duke, to whom he brought a letter 
of introduction, was from home ; but the Duchess, being informed of his ar- 
rival, gave him an invitation to sup and sleep at Athole House. He ac- 
cepted the invitation ; but, as the hour of supper was at some distance, 
begged I would in the interval be his guide througli the grounds. It was 
already growing dark ; yet the softened, though faint and uncertain, view 
of their beauties, which the moonlight aflbrdcd us, seemed exactly suiied 
to the state of his feelings at the time. I had often, like others, experienced 
the pleasures which arise from the sublime or elegant landscape, but I ne- 
ver saw those fcelingo so intense as in Burns. When we reached a rustic 
hut on the river Tilt, where it is overhung by a woody precipice, from 
which there is a noble water-fall, he threw himself on the lieathy seat, 
and gave himself up to a tender, abstracted, and volu])tuous enthusiasm of 
imagination. It was with much difficulty I prevailed on him to quit this 
spot, and to be introduced in proper time to supper. My curiosity was 
great to see how he would conduct himself in company so different from 
what he had been accustomed to. His manner was unembarrassed, plain, 
and firm. He appeared to have complete reliance on his own native good 
sense for directing his behaviour. He seemed at once to perceive and to 
appreciate what was due to the company and to himself, and never to for- 
get a proper respect for the separate species of dignity belonging to each. 
He did not arrogate conversation, but, when led into it, he spoke with ease, 
propriety, and manliness. He tried to exert his abilities, because he knew 
it was ability alone gave him a title to be there. The Duke's fine young 
family attracted much of his admiration ; he di'ank their healths as holiest 
men and bonnie lasses, an idea which was much applauded by the company, 
and with M-hich he has very felicitously closed his poem. Next day I took 
a ride with him through some of the most romantic parts of that neigh- 
bourhood, and was highly gratified by his conversation. Asa specimen 
of his happiness of conception and strength of expression, I will mention a 
remark which he made on his fellow-traveller, who was walking at the time 
a few paces before us. He was a man of a robust but clumsy person ; and 
while Burns was expressing to me the value he entertained for liim, on 
account of his vigorous talents, although they Avere clouded at times by 
coarseness of manners; " in short," he added, " his mind is like his body, 
he has a confounded strong in-knee'd sort of a soul." — INIuch attention was 
paid to Burns both before and after the Duke's return, of which he was 
perfectly sensible, without being vain ; and at his departure I recommended 
to him, as the most appropriate retui'n he could make, to write some des- 
criptive verses on any of the scenes with which he had been so much de- 
lighted. After leaving Blair, he, by the Duke's advice, visited the Falls of 
JBruar, and in a few days I received a letter from Inverness, M'ith the verses 
enclosed." * 

At Blair, Burns first met with Mr. Graham of Fintray, a gentleman to 
whose kindness he was afterwards indebted on more than one important 

• Extract of a letter from Mr, "Walker to Mr. Cunnicgham, dated Perth, 2^th October, 
,797. 



LIFb OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixxi 

occasion ; and Mr. Walker expresses great regret that he did not remain 
a day or two more, in which case he must have been introduced to Mr. 
Dundas, the first Lord Melville, who .was then Treasurer of the Navy, and 
had the chief management of the affairs of Scotland. This statesman was 
but little addicted to literature ; still, had such an introduction taken 
place, he might probably have been induced to bestow that consideration 
on the claims of the poet, which, in the absence of any personal acquain- 
tance, Burns's works should have commanded at his hands. 

From Blair, Burns passed " many miles through a wild country, among 
cliffs grey with eternal snows, and gloomy savage glens, till he crossed the 
Spey ; and went down the stream through Strathspey, (so famous in Scot- 
tish music), Badenoch, Sec. to Grant Castle, where he spent half a day with 
Sir James Grant ; crossed the country to Fort George, but called by the 
way at Cawdor, the ancient seat of Macbeth, where he saw the identical 
bed in which, tradition says. King Duncan was murdered ; lastly, from Fort 
George to Inverness. From Inverness, he went along the Murray Frith to 
Fochabers, taking CuUoden Muir and Brodie House in his way. — Thurs- 
day/, Came over CuUoden Muir — reflections on the field of battle — ^break- 
fast at Kilraick — old Mrs. Rose — sterling sense, warm heart, strong pas- 
sion, honest pride — all to an uncommon degree — a true chieftain's wife, 
daughter of Clephane — Mrs. Rose junior, a little milder than the mother, 
perhaps owing to her being younger — two young ladies — Miss Rose sung 
two Gaelic songs — beautiful and lovely — Miss Sophy Brodie, not very 
beautiful, but most agreeable and amiable — both of them the gentlest, mild- 
est, sweetest creatures on earth, and happiness be with them ! Brodie 
House to lie — Mr. B. truly polite, but not quite the Highland cordiality. — 
Friday, Cross the Findhorn to Forres — famous stone at Forres — Mr. Bro- 
die tells me the muir where Shakspeare lays Macbeth's witch-meeting, is 
still haunted — that the country folks won't pass by night. — Elgin — vene- 
rable ruins of the abbey, a grander effect at first glance than Melrose, but 
nothing near so beautiful. — Cross Spey to Fochabers — fine palace, worthy 
of the noble, the polite, the generous proprietor — the Duke makes me hap- 
pier than ever great man did ; noble, princely, yet mild, condescending, 
and affable — gay and kind. — The Duchess charming, witty, kind, and sen- 
sible — God bless them."*-^ — 

Burns, who had been much noticed by this noble family when in Edin- 
burgh, happened to present himself at Gordon Castle, just at the dinner 
hour, and being invited to take a place at the table, did so, without for the 
moment adverting to the circumstance that his travelling companion had 
been left alone at the inn, in the adjacent village. On rexnembering this 
soon after dinner, he begged to be allowed to rejoin lu's friend ; and the 
Duke of Gordon, who now for the first time learned that he was not jour- 
neying alone, immediately proposed to send an invitation to Mr Nicoll to 
come to the Castle. His Grace's messenger found the haughty school- 
master striding up and down before the inn door, in a state of high wrath 
and indignation, at what he considered Burns's neglect, and no apologies 
could soften his mood. He had already ordered horses, and the poet find- 
ing that he must choose between the ducal circle and his irritable associ- 
ate, at once left Gordon Castle, and repaired to the inn ; whence Nicoll 
and he, in silence and mutual displeasure, pursued their journey along the 

• Extract ftona Jowwl. 



Ixxii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

coast of the Murray Frith. The abridgment of Burns's visit at Gordon 
Castle, " was not only," says Mr. Walker, " a mortifying disappointment, 
but in all probability a serious misfortune, as a longer stay among persons 
of such influence, might have begot a permanent intimacy, and on their 
parts, an active concern for his future advancement." * But this touches 
on a delicate subject, which we shall not at present pause to consider. 

Pursuing his journey along the coast, the poet visited successively 
Nairn, Forres, .-Aberdeen, and Stonehive ; where one of his relations, James 
Burness, writer in Montrose, met him by appointment, and conducted him 
into the circle of his paternal kindred, among whom he spent two or three 
days. When William Burness, his father, abandoned his native district, 
never to revisit it, he, as he used to tell his children, took a sorrowful fare- 
well of his brother on the summit of the last hill from which the roof of 
their lowly home could be descried ; and the, old man appears to have 
ever after kept up an affectionate correspondence with his family. It fell 
to the poet's lot to communicate his father's death to the Kincardineshire 
kindred, and after that he seems to have maintained the same sort of cor- 
respondence. He now formed a personal acquaintance with these good 
people, and in a letter to his brother Gilbert, we find him describing them 
in terms which show the lively interest he took in all their concerns. * 

" The rest of my stages," says he, " are not worth rehearsing : warm 
as I was from Ossian's country, where I had seen his very grave, what 
cared I for fishing towns and fertile carses ?" He arrived once more in 
Auld Reekie, on the 16 th of September, having travelled about six hun- 
dred miles in two-and-twenty days — greatly extended his acquaintance 
with his own country, and visited some of its most classical scenery — ob- 
served something of Highland manners, which must have been as interest- 
ing as they were novel to him — and strengthened considerably among the 
sturdy Jacobites of the North those political opinions which he at this pe- 
riod avowed. 

Of the few poems composed during this Highland tour, we have already 
mentioned two or three. While standing by the Fall of Fyers, near Loch 
Ness, he wrote with his pencil the vigorous couplets — 

" Among the heathy hills and rugged woods. 
The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods," &c. 

When at Sir William Murray's of Ochtertyre, he celebrated Miss Murray 
of Lintrose, commonly called " The Flower of Sutherland," in the Song — 

" Blythe, blythe, and merry was she, 
Blythe was she but and ben," &c. 

And the verses On Scaring some Wildfowl on Loch Turit, — 

" W^j, ye tenants of the lake, 
For me your wat'ry haunts forsake," &c. 

were composed while under the same roof. These last, except perhaps 
Bruar Water, are the best that he added to his collection during the wan- 
derings of the summer. But in Burns's subsequent productions, we find 
many traces of the delight with which he had contemplated nature in these 
alpine regions. 

* Qencral CeRcspondence. 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS, Ixxlil 

The poet once more visited his family at Mossgiel, and Mr. Miller at 
Dalswinton, ere the winter set in ; and on more leisurely examination of 
that gentleman's estate, we find him writing as if he had all but decided 
to become his tenant on the farm of Elliesland. It was not, however, un- 
til he had for the third time visited Dumfriesshire, in March 1788, that a 
bargain was actually concluded. More than half of the intervening 
months were spent in Edinburgh, where Burns found, or fancied that his 
presence was necessary for the satisfactory completion of his affairs with 
the booksellers. It seems to be clear enough that one great object was the 
society of his jovial intimates in the capital. Nor -was he without the 
amusement of a little romance to fill up what vacant hours they left him. 
He lodged that winter in Bristo Street, on purpose to be near a beautiful 
widow — the same to whom he addressed- the song, 

" Clarinda, mistress of my soul," &c. 

and a series of prose epistles, which have been separately published, and 
which present more instances of bad taste, bombastic language, and fulsome 
sentiment, than could be produced from all his vv'ritings besides. 

At this time the publication called JoJiusons Museum of Scottish Song 
was going on in Edinburgh ; and the editor appears to have early prevailed on 
Burns to give him his assistance in the arrangement of his materials. Though 
Green groiv the rashes is the only song, entirely his, which appears in the 
first volume, pubhshed in 1787, many of the old ballads included in that 
volume bear traces of his hand ; but in the second volume, which appeared 
in March 1788, we find no fewer than five songs by Burns ; two that have 
been already mentioned. * and three far better than them, viz. Theniel 
Menzies bonny Mary ; that grand lyric, 

" Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong, 
The wretch's destiny, 
Macpherson's time will not be long 
On yonder gallows tree ;" 

both of which performances bespeak the recent impressions of his Highland 
visit ; and, lastly, Whistle and I'll come to you, my lad. Burns had been 
from his youth upwards an enthusiastic lover of the old minstrelsy and 
music of his country ; but he now studied both subjects with far better op- 
portunities and appliances than he could have commanded previously ; and 
it is from this time that we must date his ambition to transmit his own 
poetry to posterity, in eternal association with those exquisite airs which 
had hitherto, in far too many instances, been married to verses that did 
not deserve to be immortal. It is well known that from this time Burns 
composed very few pieces but songs ; and whether we ought or not to re- 
gret that such was the case, must depend on the estimate we make of his 
songs as compared with his other poems ; a point on which critics are to this 
hour divided, and on which their descendants are not very likely to agree. 
Mr. Walker, who is one of those that lament Burns's comparative derelic- 
tion of the species of composition which he most cultivated in the early 
days of his inspiration, suggests very sensibly, that if Burns had not taken 
to song-writing, he would probably have written little or nothing amidst 
the various temptations to company and dissipation which now and hence- 
forth surrounded him — to say nothing of the active duties of life in which 

• " Clarinda," and " How pleasant the banks of the clear winding Devon." 

12 



Ixxiv. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

he was at lengtn about to be engaged. Burns was present, on the 31st of 
December, at a dinner to celebrate the birth-day of the unfortunate Prince 
Charles Edward Stuart, and produced on the occiision an ode, part of which 
Dr. Currie has preserved. The specimen will not induce any regret that 
the remainder of the piece has been suppressed. It appears to be a mouth- 
ing rhapsody — far, far diflerent indeed from the Chevalier's Lament, which 
the poet composed some months afterwards, with probably the tithe of 
the eftbrt, while riding alone " through a track of melancholy muirs be- 
tween Galloway and Ayrshire, it being Sunday." * 

For six weeks of the time that Burns spent this year in Edinburgh, he 
was confined to his room, in consequence of an overturn in a hackney coach. 
'♦ Here I am," he writes, " mider the care of a surgeon, with a bruised 
limb extended on a cushion, and the tints of my mind vying with the livid 
liorrors preceding a midnight thunder-storm. A drunken coachman was 
the cause of the first, and incomparably the lightest evil ; misfortune, bodi- 
ly constitution, hell, and myself, have formed a quadruple alliance to gua- 
rantee the other. I have taken tooth and nail to the Bible, and am got 
half way through the five books of Moses, and half way in Joshua. It is 
really a glorious book. I sent for my bookbinder to-day, and ordered him 
to get an 8vo. Bible ir> sheets, the best paper and print in town, and bind 
it with all the cl!;^':;ncc of his craft." -j- — In another letter, which opens gaily- 
enough, we find him reverting to the same prevailing darkness of mood. 
" I can't say I am altogether at my ease when I see any m here in my path 
that meagre, squiilid, i'amine-faccd spectre, Poverty, attended as he always 
is by iron-fisted 0])pressicn, and leering Contempt. But I have sturdily 
withstood his bufTetings many a hard-laboured day, and still my motto is / 
DARE. My worst enemy is moi-meme. There are just two creatures that 
I would envy — a horse in his wild state traversing the forests of Asia, or 
an oyster on some of the; desert shores of Europe. The one has not a wish 
without enjoyment ; the other has neither wish nor fear." \ — One more 
specimen may be sufficient. || " These have been six horrible weeks. 
Anguish and low spirits have made me unfit to read, write, or think. I have 
a hundred times wished that one could resign life as an officer does a com- 
mission ; for I would not take in any poor ignorant wretch by selling out. 
Lately, I was a sixpenny private, and God knows a miserable soldier enough : 
now I march to the campaign a starving cadet, a little more conspicuously 
wretched. I am ashamed of all this ; for though I do not want bravery for 
the warfare of life, I could wish, like some other soldiers, to have as much 
fortitude or cunning as to dissemble or conceal my cowardice." 

It seems impossible to doubt that Burns had in fact lingered in Edin- 
burgh, in the hope that, to use a vague but sufficiently expressive phrase, 
something would be done for him. He visited and revisited a farm, — talked 
and wrote about " having a fortune at the plough-tail," and so forth ; but 
all the while nourished, and assuredly it would have been most strange if 
he had not, the fond dieam that the admiration of his country would ere 
long present itself in some solid and tangible shape. His illness and con- 
finement gave him leisure to concentrate his imagination on the darker side 
of his prospects ; and the letters which we have quoted may teach those 
who envy the powers and the fame of genius, to pause for a moment over 

" General Correspondence, No. 46. 

+ Reliques, p. 43. + Ibid. p. 44. 

Jl Cknwal Correspoudeocc, No. 43. ^...^ 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. IxxV 

the annals of literature, and think what superior capabilities of misery have 
been, in the great majority of cases, interv.oven with the possession of 
those very talents, from which all but their possessors derive unmingled 
gratification. Burns's distresses, however, were to be still farther aggravated. 
While still under the hands of his surgeon, he received intelligence from 
Mauchline that his intimacy witii Jean Armour had once more exposed 
her to the reproaches of her family. The fatlier sternly and at once turned 
her out of doors ; and Burns, unable to walk across his room, had to write 
to his friends in Mauchline to procure shelter for his children, and for her 
whom he considered as — all but his wife. In a letter to Airs. Dunlop, 
written on hearing of tliis new misfortune, he says, " ^ I wish I were dead, 
hut I'm 110 like to die.' I fear I am something like — undone ; but I hope for 
the best. You must not desert me. Your friendship I think I can count 
on, though I should date my letters from a marcliing regiment. Early in 
life, and all my life, I reckoned on a recruiting drum as my forlorn hope. Se- 
riously, though, life at present presents me witli but a melancholy path 

But my limb will soon be sound, and I shall struggle on."' * 

It seems to have been now that Burns at last screwed up his courage to 
solicit the active interference in his behalf of the Earl of Glencairn. The 
letter is a brief one. Burns could ill endure this novel attitude, and he 
rushed at once to his request. " I wish.," says he, *' to get into the excise. 
I am told 3'our Lordship will easily procure me the grant from the com- 
missioners ; and your lordship's patronage and kindness, which have already 
rescued me from obscurity, wretchedness, and exile, embolden me to ask 
that interest. You have likewise put it in my pov/er to save the little tie 
of home, that sheltered an aged motlicr, two brothers, and three sisters 
from destruction. There, my lord, you have bound me over to the highest 

gratitude My heart sinks within me at the idea of applying to any 

other of The Great who have lionouvcd me v,ith their countenance. I am 
ill qualified to dog the heels of greatness with the impertinence of solicita- 
tion ; and tremble nearly as much at tlie thought of the cold promise as of 
the cold denial." f It would be liard to think that this letter was coldly or 
negligently received ; on the contrary, we knov/ that Burns's gratitude to 
Lord Glencairn lasted as long as his life. But the excise appointment 
which he coveted was not procured by any exertion of his noble patron's 
influence. Mr. Alexander Wood, surgeon, (still affectionately remembered 
in Edinburgh as " kind old Sandy Wood,") happening to hear Burns, while 
his patient, mention the object of his wishes, went immediately, without 
dropping any hint of his intention, and communicated the state of the 
poet's case to Air. Graham of Fintray, one of the commissioners of excise, 
who had met Burns at the Duke of Athole's in the autumn, and who im- 
mediately had the poet's name put on the roll. — " I have chosen this, my 
dear friend," (thus wrote Burns to Airs. Dunlop), " after mature delibera- 
tion. The question is not at what door of Fortune's palace shall we enter 
in ; but what doors does she open to us ? I was not likely to get any thing 
to do. I wanted un but, which is a dangerous, an unhappy situation. I got 
this without any hangmg on or mortifying solicitation. It is immediate 
bread, and, though poor in comparison of the last eighteen months of my 
existence, 'tis luxury in comparison of all my preceding life. Besides, the 
commissioners are some of them my acquaintances, and all of them my 
firm friends." % 

• Reljques, p. 48. f General Correspondence, Is'o, 40, J Reliques, p. W* 



Ixxvl LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

Our poet seems to have kept up an angry correspondence during his con- 
finement with his bookseller, Mr. Creech, whom he also abuses very heartily 
in his letters to his friends in Ayrshire. The publisher's accounts, however, 
when they were at last made up, must have given the impatient author a 
very agreeable surprise ; for, in his letter above quoted, to Lord Glencairn, 
we find him expressing his hopes that the 'gross profits of his book might 
amount to " better than X200," whereas, on the day of settling with Mr. 
Creech, he found himself in possession of A'oOO, if not of £600. Mr. Ni- 
coll, the most intimate friend Burns had, writes to Mr John Lewars, ex- 
cise officer at Dumfries, immediately on hearing of the poet's death, — " He 
certainly told me that he received £600 for the first Edinburgh edition, and 
£100 afterwards for the copyright." — Dr. Currie states the gross product 
of Creech's edition at £300, and Burns himself, in one of his printed let- 
ters, at £400 only. NicoU hints, in the letter already referred to, that 
Burns had contracted debts while in Edinburgh, which he might not Avish 
to avow on all occasions ; and if we are to believe this — and, as is probable, 
the expense of printing the subscription edition, sjiould, moreover, be de- 
ducted from the £700 stated by Mr. Nicoll — the apparent contradictions 
in these stories may be pretty nearly reconciled. There appears to be 
reason fi)r thinking that Creech subsequently paid more than £100 for the 
copyright. If he did not, how came Burns to realize, as Currie states it 
at the end of his Memoir, " nearly £900 in all by his poems?" 

This supply came truly in the hour of need ; and it seems to have ele- 
vated his spirits greatly, and given him for the time a new stock of confi- 
dence ; for he now resumed immediately his purpose of taking Mr. Miller's 
farm, retaining his excise commission in his pocket as a dernier resort, to be 
made use of only should some reverse of fortune come upon him. His first 
act, however, was to relieve his brother from his difficulties, by advancing 
£180 or £200, to assist him in the management of Mossgiel. " I give my- 
self no airs on this," he generously says, in a letter to Dr. Moore, " for it 
was mere selfishness on my part. I was conscious that the wrong scale of 
the balance was pretty heavily charged, and I thought that the throwing a 
little filial piety and fraternal affection into the scale in my favour, might 
help to smooth matters at the grand recho7img." * 

• General Conespondence,._ No. cc. 



CHAPTER VII. 



/-74fl7"^ 'f^r^T"""?'"''' fapolopeticalj, ofthe event -Remarks-Becomes 
W U *r f f "'«^'"'^' «" f'>e ^'tf>, in a romantic vicinity, six mi/es from Dumfries— 

The Muse wakeful as ever, xvhde the Poet maintains a varied and e.xten^ve Uterarv corre- 
epondence with all and sundr^j— Remarks upon the correspondence— Sketch of his person 
and hahjts at this period by a brother poet, who shows cause agaimt success in farnvng- 
The untoward conjunction of Gauger to Farmer-The notice of the squirearchy, and the 

/?lmf/f'"'""^ *''*"'"'*' '^"''""' uniformly to the ultra convivial life— Leaves Ellitiland 
(1791) to be exciseman in the town of Dumfries. «■"««'«* 



*' To make a happy fireside clime 
For weans and wife — 
That's the tnie pathos and sublime 
Of human life," 

Burns, as soon as his bruised limb was able for a journey, went to Moss- 
giel, and went through the ceremony of a Justice-of- Peace marriage with 
Jean Armour, m the writing-chambers of his friend Gavin Hamilton. He 
\T "atT^^'^ ^^^^ country to Dalswinton, and concluded his bargain witli 
Mr. Miller as to the farm of Elliesland, on terms which must undoubtedly 
liave been considered by both parties, as highly favourable to the poet • 
they were indeed fixed by two of Burns's own friends, who accompanied 
him for that purpose from Ayrshire. The lease was for four successive 
terms, of nineteen years each,_in all seventy-six years ; the rent for the 
hrst three years and crops £30 ; during the remainder of the period klO 
per annum. Mr. Miller bound himself to defray the expense of any plan- 
tations which Burns might please to make on the banks of the river ; and 
the farm-house and offices being in a delapidated condition, the new tenant 
was to receive £300 ftom tiic proprietor, for the erection of suitable build- 
ings. Burns entered on possession of his farm at Whitsuntide 1788, but 
the necessary rebuilding of the house prevented his removing Mrs. Burns 
thither until the season was far advanced. He had, moreover, to qualify 
himself for holding his excise commission by six weeks' attendance on the 
business of that profession at Ayr. From these circumstances, he led all 
the summer a wandering and unsettled life, and Dr. Curric mentions this 
as one of his chief misfortunes. The poet, as he says, was continually rid- 
nig between Ayrshire and Dumfriesshire, and often spending a night on 
the road, "sometimes fell into company, and forgot the resolutions lie had 
lormed. What these resolutions were, the poet himself shall tell us. On 
the third day of his residence at Elliesland, he thus writes to Mr. Ainslie • 
— " I have all along hitherto, in the warfare of life, been bred to arms, 
among the light-horse, the piquet guards of fancy, a kind of hussars and 
Highlanders of the brain ; but I am firmly resolved to sell out of these giddy 
battalions. Cost what it will, I am determined to buy in among the grave 
squadrons of heavy-armed thought, or the artillery corps of plodding con- 



IxxvHi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

trivance. ~. • . Were it not for the terrors of my ticklish situation re- 
specting a family of children, I am decidedly of opinion that the step I have 
taken is vastly for mv happiness." * 

To all his IViends he expresses himself in terms of similar satisfaction in 
regard to his marriage. " Your surmise, Madam," he writes to Mrs. Dun- 
lop, "is just. lam indeed a husband. I found a once much-loved, and 
still much-loved female, literally and truly cast out to the mercy of the 
naked elements, but as I enabled her to jmrchase a shelter ; and there is no 
sporting with a fellovz-creature's happiness or misery. The most placid 
goodnature and sweetness of disposition ; a warm heart, gratefully devoted 
with all its powers to love me ; vigorous health and sprightly cheerfulness, 
set off Lo the best advantage by a more than commonly handsome figure ; 
these, I think, in a woman, may make a good v.ife, though she should ne- 
ver have read a page but the Scriptures of the Old and New Testament, 

nor danced in a brighter assembly than a penny-pay wedding 

To jealousy or infidelity I am an equal stranger ; my preservative from the 
first, is the most thorough consciousness of her sentiments of honour, and 
her attachment to me ; my antidote against the last, is my long and deep- 
rooted affection for her. In housewife matters, of aptness to learn, and • 
activity to execute, she is eminently mistress, and during my absence in 
Nithsdale, she is regularly and constantly an apprentice to my mother and 

sisters in their dairy, and other rural business You are right, 

that a bachelor state would have ensured me more friends ; but from a 
cause you will easily guess, conscious peace in the enjoyment of my own 
mind, and unmistrusting confidence in approaching my God, would seldom 
have been of the number." f 

Some months later he tells Miss Chalmers that his marriage " was not, 
perhaps, in consequence of the attachment of romance," — (he is addressing 
a young lady), — " but," he continues, " I have no cause to repent it. If 
I have not got polite tattle, modish manners, and fashionable dress, 1 am not 
sickened and disgusted with the multiform curse of boarding-school affec- 
tation ; and I have got the handsomest figure, the sweetest temper, the 
soundest constitution, and the kindest heart in the country. Mrs. Burns 
believes as firmly as her creed, that I am k pi its hel esprit ct leplus honmte 
homme in the universe ; although she scarcely ever, in her life, except the 
Scri))tures and the Psalms of David in Metre, spent five minutes together 
on cither prose or verse — I nmst except also a certain late publication of 
Scots poems, which she has perused very devoutly, and all the ballads of 
the country, as she has (O the partial lover, you will say), the finest 
woodnote-wild I ever heard." — It was during this honeymoon, as he calls 
it, while chiefly resident in a miserable hovel at Elliesland, \ and only 
occasionally spending a day or two in Ayrshire, that he wrote the beautiful 
song : II 

" Of a' the .airts the wind can blaw I dearly like the west, 
For there the bonnie lassie lives, the lassie I lo'e best ; 
There wildwoods grow, and rivers row, and niony a hill between ; 
But day and night my fancy's flight is ever wi' my Jean. 

O blaw, ye wcstlin winds, blaw saft amang the leafy trees, 
Wi' gentle gale, frae muir and dale, bring hame the laden bees. 
And biing t'lie lassie back to me, that's aye sae neat and clean;; 
Ae blink o' her wad banish care, sae lovely is my Jean." 

• Reliques, p. 6.1. + See General Correspondence, No. 63 ; and Reliques, p. 60. 

X B«Uque8, p. 76. II Ibid. p. 273. 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURJ^S. kxlx 

One of Burns's letters, written not long after this, contains a passage strong- 
ly marked witli his haughtiness of character. " I have escaped," says he, 
" the fantastic caprice, the apish affectation, witli all the other blessed 
boarding-school acquirements which are sometimes to be found among fe- 
males of the upper ranks, but almost universally pervade the misses of the 
would-be gentry."* 

" A discerning reader," says Mr. Walker, " will perceive that the let- 
ters in which he announces his marriage to some of his most respected cor- 
respondents, are written in that state when the mind is pained by reflect- 
ing on an unwelcome step, and finds relief to itself in seeking arguments 
to justify the deed, and lessen its disadvantages in the opinion of others." f 
I confess I am not able to discern any traces of this kind of feeling in any 
of Burns's letters on this interesting and important occasion. The Rev. 
Hamilton Paul takes an original view of this business : — " Much praise," 
says he, " has been lavished on Burns for renewing his engagement with 
Jean when in the blaze of his fame. . . Tlie praise is misplaced. We 
do not think a man entitled to credit or commendation for doing what the 
law could compel him to perform. Burns was in reality a married man, 
and it is trul}'^ ludicrous to hear him, aware as he must have been, of the in- 
dissoluble power of the obligation, though every document was destroyed, 
talking of himself as a bachelor." J There is no justice in these remarks. 
It is very true, that, by a merciful fiction of the law of Scotland, the fe- 
male, in Miss Armour's condition, who produces a written promise of mar- 
riage, is considered as having furnished evidence of an irregular marriage 
having taken place between her and her lover ; but in this case the female 
herself had destroyed the document, and lived for many months not only 
not assuming, but rejecting the character of Burns's wife ; and had she, un- 
der such circumstances, attempted to establish a marriage, with no docu- 
ment in her hand, and with no parole evidence to show that any such do- 
cument had ever existed, to say nothing of proving its exact tenor, but 
that of her own father, it is clear that no ecclesiastical court in the world 
could have failed to decide against her. So far from Burns's having all 
along regarded her as his wife, it is extremely doubtful wliether she had 
ever for one moment considered him as actually her husband, until he de- 
clared the marriage of 1788. Burns did no more than justice as well as 
honour demanded ; but the act was one which no human tribunal could 
have compelled him to perform. 

To return to our story. Burns complains sadly of his solitary condition, 
when living in the only hovel that he found extant on his farm. '• I am," 
says he, (September 9th) " busy Vvith my harvest, but for all that most 
pleasurable part of life called social intercourse, I am here at the very el- 
bow of existence. The only things that are to be found in this country in 
any degree of perfection, are stupidity and canting. Prose tlie}' only know 
in graces, &c., and the value of these they estimate as they do their plaid- 
ing webs, by the ell. As for the muses, they have as much idea of a rhino- 
ceros as of a poet." And in another letter (September i6th) he says, 
" This hovel that I shelter in while occasionally here, is pervious to every 
blast that blows, and every shower that falls, and I am only preserved 
from being chilled to death by being suffocated by smoke. You will be 
pleased to hear that I have laid aside idle cdat, and bind every day after 

• General Correspondence, No. 55. + iMorrison, vol. i. p. Ixxxvii. 

$ Paul's Life of Bums, p. 45. 



Ixxx LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

my reapers." His house, however, did not take much time in building ; 
nor had he reason to complain of want of society long. He brought his 
wife home to Elliesland about the end of November ; and few housekeepers 
start witli a larger provision of young mouths to feed than this couple. Mrs. 
Burns had lain in this autumn, for the second time, of twins, and I sup- 
pose " sonsy, smirking, dear-bought Bess,"* accompanied her younger bro- 
thers and sisters from Mossgiel. From that quarter also Burns brought a 
whole establishment of servants, male and female, who, of course, as was 
then the universal custom amongst the small farmers, both of the west and 
of the south of Scotland, partook, at the same table, of the same fare with 
their master and mistress. 

Elliesland is beautifully situated on the banks of the Nith, about six miles 
above Dumfries, exactly opposite to the house of Dalswinton, of those noble 
woods and gardens amidst which Burns's landlord, the ingenious Mr. Pa- 
trick Miller, found relaxation from the scientific studies and researches in 
which he so greatly excelled. On the Dalswinton side, the river washes 
lawns and groves ; but over against these the bank rises into a long red 
scaur, of considerable height, along the verge of which, where the bare 
shingle of the precipice all but overliangs the stream. Burns had his favou- 
rite walk, and might now be seen striding alone, early and late, especially 
when the winds were loud, and the waters below him swollen and turbu- 
lent. For he was one of these that enjoy nature most in the more serious 
and severe of her aspects ; and throughout his poetry, for one allusion 
to the liveliness of spring, or the splendour of summer, it would be easy 
to point out twenty in which he records the solemn delight with which he 
contemplated the melancholy grandeur of autumn, or the savage gloom of 
winter ; and he has himself told us, that it was his custom " to take a 
gloamin' shot at the muses." 

The poet was accustomed to say, that the most happy period of his life 
was the first winter he spent at Elliesland, — for the first time under a roof 
of his own — with his wife and children about him — and in spite of oc- 
casional lapses into the melancholy Avhich had haunted his youth, looking 
forward to a life of well-regulated, and not ill-rewarded, industry. It is 
known that he welcomed his wife to her rooftree at Elliesland in the song, 

'• I hae a wife o' mine ain, I'll partake wi' naebody ; 
I'll tak cuckold frac nane, I'll gie cuckold to naebody ; 
1 hae a penny to spend — there — tlianks to naebody ; 
I hae naething to lend — I'll borrow frae naebody." 

In commenting on this " little lively lucky song," as he well calls it, Mr. A. 
Cunningham says, " Burns had built his house, he had committed his 
seed-corn to the ground, he was in the prime, nay the morning of life- 
health, and strength, and agricultural skill were on his side — his geniuj 
had been acknowledged by his country, and rewarded by a subscription, 
more extensive than any Scottish poet ever received before ; no wonder, 
therefore, that he broke out into voluntary song, expressive of his sense of 
importance and independence." 

Burns, in his letters of the year 1 789, makes many apologies for doing 
but little in his poetical vocation ; his farm, without doubt, occupied much 
of his attention, but the want of social intercourse, of which he complained 
on his first arrival in Nithsdale, had by this time totally disappeared. On 

• Poetical Ikventory to Mr. Aiken, February 1786. 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS.' Ixjpti 

the contrary, his company was courted eagerly, not only by his brother- 
farmers, but by the neighbourhig gentry of all classes ; and now, too, for 
the first time, he began to be visited continually in his own house by curi- 
ous travellers of all sorts, who did not consider, any more than the gene- 
rous poet himself, that an extensive practice of hospitality must cost more 
time than he ought to have had, and far more money than he ever had, at 
his disposal. Meantime, he was not wholly regardless of the muses ; for 
in addition to some pieces which we have akeady had occasion to notice, 
he contributed to this year's Museum, The Thames flows proudly to the 
Sea ; The lazy mist hangs, ^-c. ; The day returns, my bosom burns ; Tarn 
Glen, (one of the best of his humorous songs) ; the splendid lyric, Go 
feteh to me a pint of wine, and My heart's in the Hielands, (in both of which, 
however, he adopted some lines of ancient songs to the same tunes); John 
Anderson, in part also a rifacciamento ; the best of all his Bacchanalian 
pieces, Willie brewed a peck o maut, written in celebration of a festive meet- 
ing at the country residence, in Dumfriesshire, of his friend Mr. NicoU of 
the High School ; and lastly, that noblest of all his ballads, To if/ary in 
Heaven. This celebrated poem was, it is on all hands admitted, composed 
by Burns in September 1789, on the anniversary of the day on which he 
heard of the death of his early love, Mary Campbell ; but Mr. Cromek 
has thought fit to dress up the story v.-ith circumstances which did not oc- 
cur. Mrs. Burns, the only person vvho could appeal to personal recollec- 
tion on this occasion, and whose recollections of all circumstances con- 
nected with the history of her husband's poems, are represented as being 
remai'kably distinct and vivid, gives what may at first appear a more pro- 
saic edition of the history. * According to her, Burns spent that day, 
though labouring under cold, in the usual work of his harvest, and appa- 
rently in excellent spirits. But as the twilight deepened, he appeared to 
grow " very sad about something," and at length wandered out into the 
barn-yard, to which his wife, in her anxiety for his health, followed him, 
entreating him in vain to observe that frost had set in, and to return 
to the fireside. • On being again and again requested to do so, he always 
promised compliance — but still remained v.here he was, striding up and 
down slowly, and contemplating the sky, which was singularly clear and 
starry. At last Mrs. Burns found him stretched on a mass of straw, with 
his eyes fixed on a beautiful planet " that shone like another moon ;" and 
prevailed on him to come in. He immediately on entering the house, called 
for his desk, and wrote exactly as they now stand, Avith all the ease of one 
copying from memory, the sublime and pathetic verses — 

, " Thou lingering star with lessening ray, , 

That lovest to greet the early morn, 
Again tlioii nsher'st in the day 

J\Iy I\Iary from my soul was torn. 
O Rlary, dear departed shade. 

Where is thy place of blissful rest ; 
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid, 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ?" &c. 

The Mothers Lameiit for her Son, and Inscription in an Hermitage in 
Nithsdak, were also written this year. From the time when Burns settled 
himself in Dumfriesshire, he appears to have conducted with much care 
the extensive correspondence in which his celebrity liad engaged him. The 

• I owe these particulars to ]\Ir. M'Diarmid, tlic able editor of the Dumfries Courier, and 
brother of the lamented autiior of " Lives of British Statesmen." 

13 



Ixxxii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

letters that passed between li5m and his brother Gilbert, are among the 
most precious of the collection. That the brothers had entire knowledge 
of and confidence in each other, no one can doubt ; and the plain manly 
affectionate language in wliich they both write, is truly honourable to them, 
and tt- ♦he parents that reared them. " Dear Brother," writes Gilbert, 
January 1st, 1789, " I have just finished my new-year's-day breakfast in 
the usual form, which naturally makes me call to mind the days of former 
years, and the society in which we used to begin them ; and when I look 
at our family vicissitudes, ' through the dark postern of time long elapsed,' 
I cannot help remarking to you, my dear brother, how good the God of 
seasons is to us ; and that, however some clouds may seem to lour over 
the portion of time before us, we have great reason to hope that all will 
turn out well." 

It was on the same new-year's-day that Burns himself addressed to Mrs. 
Dunlop a letter, part of which is here transcribed. It is dated Elliesland, 
New-year-day morning, 1789, and certainly cannot be read too often : — 
" This, dear Madam, is a morning of wishes, and would to God that I 
came under the apostle James's description! — the prayer of a righteous man 
availeth much. In that case, madam, you should welcome in a year full of 
blessings ; every thing that obstructs or disturbs tranquillity and self-enjoy- 
ment, should be removed, and every pleasure that frail humanity can taste, 
should be yours. I own myself so little a Presbyterian, that I approve of 
set times and seasons of more than ordinary acts of devotion, for breaking 
in on that habituated routine of life and thought, which is so apt to reduce 
our existence to a kind of instinct, or even sometimes, and with some minds, 
to a state very little superior to mere machinery. This day, — the first 
Sunday of May, — a breezy, blue-skyed moon sometime about the begin- 
ning, and a hoary morning and calm sunny day about the end of autumn ; 
these, time out of mind, have been with me a kind of holiday. 

" I believe I owe this to that glorious paper in the Spectator, ' The 
Vision of Mirza ;' a piece that struck my young fancy before I was capable 
of fixing an idea to a word of three syllables : ' On the 5ih day of the moon, 
which, according to the custom of my forefathers, I always keep holy, after 
having washed myself, and oifered up my morning devotions, I ascended 
the high hill of Bagdat, in order to pass the rest of the day in meditation 
and prayer.' We know nothing, or next to nothing, of the substance or 
structure of our souls, so cannot account for those seeming caprices in 
them, that one should be particularly pleased with this thing, or struck 
with that, which, on minds of a different cast, makes no extraordinary im- 
pression. I have some favourite flowers in spring, among which are the 
mountain-daisy, the hare-bell, the fox-glove, the wild brier-rose, the bud- 
ding-birch, and the hoary hawthorn, that I view and hang over with par- 
ticular delight. I never hear the loud, solitary whistle of the curlew in a 
summer noon, or the wild mixing cadence of a troop of grey plover, in an 
autumnal morning, without feeling an elevation of soul like the enthusiasm 
of devotion or poetry. Tell me, my dear friend, to what can this be ow- 
ing ? Are we a piece of machinery, which, like the yEolian harp, passive, 
takes the impression of the passing accident ? Or do these workings argue 
something within us above the trodden clod ? I own myself partial to such 
proofs of those awful and important realities — a God that made all things 
— man's immaterial and immortal nature — and a world of weal or woe be- 
yond death and the grave." 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixxxlii 

Few, it is to be hoped, can read such things as these without delight ; 
none, surely, that taste the elevated pleasure they are calculated to in- 
spire, can turn from them to the well-known issue of Burns's history, with- 
out being afflicted. The " golden days" of EUiesland, as Dr. Currie justly 
calls them, were not destined to be many. Burns's farming speculations 
once more failed ; and lie himself seems to have been aware that such was 
likely to be the case ere he had given the business many months' trial ; for, 
ere the autumn of 1788 was over, he applied to his patron, Mr. Graham of 
Fintray, for actual employment as an exciseman, and was accordingly ap- 
pointed to do duty, in that capacity, in the district where his lands were 
situated. His income, as a revenue officer, was at first only £35 ; it by 
and by rose to iaO ; and sometimes was £70. These pounds were hardly 
earned, since the duties of his new calling necessarily withdrew him very 
often from the farm, whicli needed his utmost attention, and exposed him, 
which was still worse, to imiumorabJc temptations of the kind he was least 
likely to resist. 

I have now the satisfaction of presenting the reader with some particu- 
lars of this part of I'urns's history, derived from a source which every 
lover of Scotland and Scottish poetry must be prepared to hear mentioned 
with respect. It happened that at the time when our poet went to Niths- 
dale, the lather of Mr. Allan Cunningham was steward on the estate of 
Dalswinton : he was, as all who have read the writings of his sons will 
readily believe, a man of remarkable talents and attainments : he Avas a 
wise and good man ; a devout admirer of Burns's genius ; and one of those 
sober neighbours who in vain strove, by advice and warning, to arrest the 
poet in the downhill path, towards which a thousand seductions were per- 
petually drawing ]nni. Mr. Allan Cunningham was, of course, almost a 
child when he first saw Burns ; but, in what he has to say on this subject, 
we may be sure we arc hearing the substance of his benevolent and saga- 
cious father's observations and reflections. His own boyish recollections 
of the poet's personal appearance and demeanour will, however, be read 
with interest. " I was very young," says Allan Cunningham, " when I 
first saw Burns. He came to see my father ; and their conversation turned 
partly on farming, partly on poetry, in both of which my father had taste 
and skill. Burns had just come to Kithsdale ; and I think he appeared a 
shade more swarthy than he does in Nasmyth's picture, and at least ten years 
older than he really was at the time. His face was deeply marked by 
thought, and the habitual expression intensely melancholy. liis frame was 
very muscular and well proportioned, though he had a short neck, and 
something of a ploughman's stoop : he was strong, and proud of his strength. 
I saw him one evening match himself with a number of masons ; and out 
of five-and-twcnty practised hands, the most vigorous young men in the 
parish, there was only one that could lift the same weight as Burns. He 
had a very manly face, and a very melancholy look ; but on the coming of 
those he esteemed, his looks brightened up, and his whole face beamed 
with affection and genius. His voice was very musical. 1 onCe heard 
him read 7'am o S/ia/ifei: I think I hear him now. His fine manly voice 
Ibllowed all the undulations of the sense, and expressed as well as his ge- 
nius had done, the pathos and humour, the horrible and the awful, of that 
wonderful performance. As a man feels, so will he write ; and in propor- 
tion as he sympathizes with his author, so will he read him with grace and 
efTect. 



Ixxxlv LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

" I said that Burns and my father conversed about poetry and farming. 
The poet had newly taken possession of his farm of ElHesland, — the masons 
were busy building his house, — the applause of the world was with him, 
and a little of its money in his pocket, — in short, he had found a resting- 
place at last. He spoke with great delight about the excellence of his 
farm, and particularly about the beauty of the situation. ' Yes,' my father 
said, ' the walks on the river bank are fine, and you will see from your win- . 
dows some miles of the Nith ; but you will also see several farms of fine 
rich holm, * any one of which you might have had. You have made a 
poet's choice, rather than a farmer's.' If Burns had much of a farmer's 
skill, he had little of a farmer's prudence and economy. I once inquired 
of James Corrie, a sagacious old farmer, whose ground marched with EUies- 
land, the cause of the poet's failure. ' Faith,' said he, ' how could he miss 
but fail, when his servants ate the bread as fust as it was baked ? I don't 
, mean figuratively, I mean literally. Consider a little. At that time close 
economy was necessary to have enabled a man to clear twenty pounds a- 
year by Elliesland. Now, Burns's own handy work was out of the ques- 
tion : he neither ploughed, nor sov/ed,' iior reaped, at least like a hard- 
working farmer ; and then he had a bevy ot servants from Ayrshire. The 
lasses did nothing but bake bread, and the iads sat by the fireside, and ate 
it warm with ale. Waste of time and consumption of food would 8oon 
reach to twenty pounds a-year.' " 

" The truth of the case," says Mr. Cunningham, in another letter with 
which he has favoured me, " the truth is, that if Robert Burns liked his 
farm, it was more for the beauty of the situation than for the labours which 
it demanded. He was too wayward to attend to the stated duties of a 
husbandman, and too impatient to wait till the ground returned in gain the 
cultivation he bestowed upon it. The condition of a farmer, a Nithsdale 
one, I mean, was then very humble. His one-story liouse had a covering 
of straw, and a cla)'- floor; the furniture was from the hands of a country 
carpenter ; and, between the roof and floor, there seldom intervened a 
smoother ceiling than of rough rods and grassy turf — while a huge lang-settle 
of black oak for himself, and a carved arm-chair for his wife, were the only 
matters out of keeping with the homely looks of his residence. He took 
all his meals in his own kitchen, and presided regularly among his children 
and domestics. He performed family worship every evening — except dur- 
ing the hurry of harvest, when that duty vras perhaps limited to Saturday 
night. A few religious books, two or three favourite poets, the history of 
his country, and his Bible, aided him in forming the minds and manners of 
the famil}'. To domestic education, Scotland owes as much as to the care 
of her clergy, and the excellence of her parish schools. 

" The picture out of doors was less interesting. The ground from which 
the farmer sought support, was generally in a very moderate state of culti- 
vation. The implements with which he tilled his land were primitive and 
clumsy, and his own knowledge of the management of crops exceedingly 
limited. He plodded on in the regular slothful routine of his ancestors ; 
he rooted out no bushes, he dug up no stones ; he drained not, neither did 
he enclose ; and weeds obtained their full share of the dung and the lime, 
which he bestowed more like a medicine than a meal on his soil. His 
plough was the rude old Scotch one ; his harroMs had as often teeth of 

• Holm is flat, rich meadow land, intervening between a stresna and the general elevation 
pf the adjoining country. 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. IxxxV 

wood as of Iron ; his carts were heavy and low-wheeled, or were, more 
properly speaking, tumbler-carts, so called to distinguish them from trail- 
carts, both of which were in common use. On these rude carriages his 
manure v/as taken to the field, and his crop brought home. The farmer 
himself corresponded in all respects with his imperfect instruments. His 
poverty secured him from risking costly experiments ; and his hatred of 
innovation made him entrench himself behind a breast-work of old maxims 
and rustic sav/s, v/hich he interpreted as oracles delivered against improve- 
ment. V\'ith ground in such condition, with tools so unfit, and with know- 
ledge so imperfect, ha sometimes succeeded in v/ringing a few hundred 
pounds Scots from the farm he occupied. Such was generally the state of 
agriculture when Burns came to Nithsdale. I know not how far his own 
skill v,-as equal to the task of improvement — his trial was short and unfor- 
tunate. An important change soon took place, by which he was not fated 
to profit ; lie had jiot the foresight to see its approach, nor, probably, the 
fjrtitude to await its coming. 

" In the year 1790, much of the ground in Nithsdale was leased at seven, 
and ten, and fifteen shillings per acre ; and the farmer, in his person and 
his house, differed little from the peasants and mechanics around him. He 
would have tliought his dauglUer wedded in her degree, had she married a 
joiner or a mason ; and at kirk or market, all men beneath the rank of a 
" portioner" of the soil mingled together, equals in appearance and impor- 
tance. But the war which soon commenced, gave a decided impulse to 
agriculture ; the army and navy consumed Irjrgely ; corn rose in demand ; 
the price augmented ; more land was called into cultivation ; and, as leases 
expired, the proprietors improved the grounds, built better houses, enlarg- 
ed the rents ; and the farmer v/as soon borne on the v/ings of sudden wealth 
above his original condition. His house obtained a slated roof, sash-windows, 
carpeted floors, plastered walls, and even began to exchange the hanks of 
yarn with which it was formerly hung, for paintings and pianofortes. He 
laid aside his coat of home-made cloth ; he retired from his seat among his 
servants ; he — I am grieved to mention it — gave up family worship as a 
thing unfashionable, and became a kind of rustic gentleman, who rode a blood 
horse, and galloped home on market nights at the peril of his own neck, and 
to the terror of every modest pedestrian. When a change like this took 
place, and a farmer could, with a dozen years' industry, be able to purchase 
the land he rented — which many were, and many did — the same, or a still 
more profitable change might have happened with respect to Elliesland ; 
and Burns, had he stuck by his lease and his plough, would, in all human 
possibility, have found the independence which he sought, and sought in 
vain, from the coldness and parsimony of mankind." 

Mr. Cunningham sums up his reminiscences of Burns at Elliesland in 
these terms : — " During the prosperity of his farm, my father often said 
that Burns conducted himself wisely, and like one anxious for his name as 
a man, and his fame as a poet. He went to Dunscore Kirk on Sunday, 
though he expressed oftener than once his dislike to the stern Calvinism of 
that strict old divine, Mr. Kirkpatrick ; — he assisted in forming a reading 
club ; and at weddings and house-heatings, and kirns, and other scenes of fes- 
tivity, he was a welcome guest, universally liked by the young and the old. 
But the failure of his farming projects, and the limited income with which 
he was compelled to support an increasing family and an expensive station 
in life, preyed on his spirits ; and, during these fits of despair, he was will- 



Ixxxvi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

W too often to become the companion of the thoughtless and the gross. I 
am grieved to say, that besides leaving the book too much for the bowl, 
and grave and wise friends for lewd and reckless companions, he was also 
in the occasional practice of composing songs, in which he surpassed the 
licentiousness, as well as the wit and humour, of the old Scottish muse. 
These have unfortunately found their way to the press, and 1 am atraid 
they cannot be recalled. In conclusion, I may say, that few men have had 
so much of the poet about them, and few poets so much of the man ;— the 
man was probably less pure^ than he ought to have been, but the poet was 
pure and bright to the last." , ,. , ,• 

The reader must be suificiently prepared to hear, that from the time 
when he entered on his excise duties, the poet more and more neglected 
the concerns of his farm. Occasionally, he might be seen holding the 
ploucrh, an exercise in which he excelled, and was proud of exce'.ling, or 
stalking down his furrows, with the white sheet of grain wrapt about him, 
a " tenty seedsman ;" but he was more commonly occupied in lar ditterent 
pursuits. " I am now," says he, in one of his letters, " a poor rascally 
gau-er, condemned to gallop two hundred miles every week, to inspect 
dirty ponds and yeasty barrels." Both in verse and in prose he has recorded 
the feelings with which he first followed his new vocation. His jests on 
the subject are uniformly bitter. " I have the same consolation, he tells 
Mr Ainslie, " which I once heard a recruiting sergeant give to his audi- 
ence in the streets of Kilmarnock : ' Gentlemen, for your farther encourage- 
ment, I can assure you that ours is the most blackguard corps under the 
crown, and, consequently, with us an honest fellow has the surest chance 
of preferment.' " On one occasion, however, he takes a higher tone. " 1 here 
is a certain stigma," says he to Bishop Geddes, " in the name of Excise- 
man • but I do not intend to borrow honour from any profession : —which 
may perhaps remind the reader of Gibbon's lofty language, on finally quit- 
ting the learned and polished circles of London and Fans, tor his Swiss re- 
tirement : " I am too modest, or too proud, to rate my value by that of 
my associates." , . 

'Burns, in his perpetual perambulations over the moors of Dumfriesshire, 
had every temptation to encounter, which bodily fatigue, the blandishments 
of hosts and hostesses, and the habitual manners of those who acted along 
with him in the duties of the excise, could present. He was, moreover, 
wherever he went, exposed to perils of his own, by the reputation which 
he had earned as a poet, and by his extraordinary powers of entertainment 
in conversation. From the castle to the cottage, every door flew open at 
his approach ; and the old system of hospitality, then flourishing, rendered 
it difficult for the most soberly inclined guest to rise from any man s board 
in the same trim that he sat down to it. The fin-mer, if Burns was seen 
passing, left his reapers, and trotted by the side of Jenny Geddes, until 
he could persuade the bard that the day was hot enougii to demand an 
extra-libation. ' If he entered an inn at midnight, after all the inmates 
were in bed, the news of his arrival circulated from the cellar to the garret; 
and ere ten minutes had elapsed, the landlord and all his guests were as- 
sembled round the ingle ; the largest punch-bowl was produced ; and 

" Be ours this night— who knows what connes to-morrow ?" 
was the language of every eye in the circle that welcomed him. The 
BUteliest gentry of the county, whenever they had especial merriment in 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixxxvii 

view, called in the wit and eloquence of Burns to enliven their carousals.* 
The famous song of The WJiistle of ivorth commemorates a scene of this 
kind, more picturesque in some of its circumstances than every day oc- 
curred, yet strictly in character with the usual tenor of life among this jo- 
vial squirearchy. Three gentlemen of ancient descent, had met to deter- 
mine, by a solemn drinking match, who should possess the Whistle, which 
a common ancestor of them all had earned ages before, in a Bacchanalian 
contest of the same sort with a noble toper from Denmark ; and the poet 
was summoned to watch over and celebrate the issue of the debate. 

" Then up rose the bard like a prophet in drink, 
Craigdarroch shall soar when creation shall sink ; 
But if thou would'st flourish immortal in rhyme, 
Come, one bottle more, and have at the sublime." 

Nor, as has already been hinted, was he safe from temptations of this kind, 
even when he was at home, and most disposed to enjoy in quiet the socie- 
ty of his wife and children. Lion-gazers from all quarters beset him ; they 
ate and drank at his cost, and often went away to criticise him and his 
fare, as if they had done Burns and his black bowl \ great honour in con- 
descending to be entertained for a single evening, with such company and 
such liquor. 

We have on record various glimpses of him, as he appeared while he 
was half-farmer, half-exciseman ; and some of these present him in atti- 
tudes and aspects, on which it would be pleasing to clwell. For example, 
the circumstances under which the verses on The wounded Hare were 
written, are mentioned generally by the poet himself. James Thomson, 
son of the occupier of a farm adjoining Elliesland, told Allan Cunningham, 
that it was he who wounded the animal. " Burns," said this person, " was 
in the cUstom, when at home, of strolling by himself in the twilight every 
evening, along the Nith, and by the march between his land and ours. 
The hares often came and nibbled our wheat braird ; and once, in the 
gloaming, — it was in April, — I got a shot at one, and wounded her : she ran 
bleeding by Burns, who was pacing up and down by himself, not far from 
rae. He started, and with a bitter curse, ordered me out of his sight, or 
he would throw me instantly into the Nith. And had I stayed, I'll war- 
rant he would have been as good as his word — though I was both young 
and strong." 

Among other curious travellers who found their way about this time to 
Elliesland, was Captain Grose, the celebrated antiquarian, whom Burns 
briefly describes as 

" A fine fat fodgel wight — 
Of stature short, but genius bright ;" 

and who has painted his own portrait, both with pen and pencil, at full 
length, in his Olio. This gentleman's taste and pursuits are ludicrously set 
forth in the copy of verses — 

• These particulars are from a letter of David AlaccuUoch, Es<j., who, being at this period 
a very young man, a passionate admirer of Burns, and a capital smger of many of his serious 
songs, used often, in nis enthusiasm, to accompany the poet on his profesbional excursions. 

-|- Burns's famous black punch-bowl, of Inverary marble, was the nuptial gift of 31 r. Ar- 
mour, his father-in-law, who himself fashioned it. After passing through many hands, it is 

now in exceUeut l^eeping, that of AlcMudvt ll»»tie, £jsq- oi Loadoa. 



Sxxxviii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

" Hear, Land o' Cakes and brither Scots, 
Frae ]\Iaidcnkirk to John O'Groats, 
A chitld's amang ye takin' notes," &c. 

and, infer alia, his love of port is not forgotten. Grose and Burns had too 
much in common, not to become great friends. The poet's accurate know- 
ledge of Scottish phraseology and customs, was of great use to the re- 
searches of the humourous antiquarian ; and, above all, it is to their ac- 
quaintance that we owe Tarn o Shanier. Burns told the story as he had 
heard it in Ayrshire, in a letter to tlie Captain, and was easily persuaded 
to versify it. The poem was th.t work of one day ; and Mrs. Burns well re- 
members the circumstances. He spent most of the day on his favourite walk 
by the river, where, in the afternoon, Ac joined him with some of her 
children. " He was busily engaged crooning to hiinsell, and Mrs. Burns 
perceiving that her presence was an interruption, loitered behind with her 
little ones among the broom. Her attention was presently attracted by the 
strange and wild gesticulations of the bard, who, now at some distance, 
was ago7iized with an ungovernable access of joy. He Avas reciting very 
loud, and witli the tears rolling down his cheeks, those animated verses 
which he had just conceived : — 

" Now Tarn ! O Tani ! had they been queans, 
A' plump and strappin' in their teens ; 
Their sarks, instead of creeshie iiannen, 
Been snaw-white seventeen-hunder *linen, — 
Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, 
That ance were plush o' good blue hair, 
I wad hae gi'en them off my hurdies, 
For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies !" -f 

To the last Burns was of opinion that Tarn o' Shanter was the best of 
all his productions ; and although it does not always happen that poet and 
public come to the same conclusion on such points, I believe the decision in 
question has been all but unanimously approved of. The admirable execu- 
tion of the piece, so far as it goes, leaves nothing to wish for ; the only cri- 
ticism has been, that the catastrophe appears unworthy of the preparation. 
Burns lays the scene of this remarkable performance almost on the spot 
where he was born ; and all the terrific circumstances by which he has 
marked the progress of Tam's midnight journey, are drawn from local tra- 
dition. 

" By this time he was cross the ford 
Whare in the snaw the cliapman smoor'd, 
And past the birks and meikle stane, 
Whare drucken Charlie brak's neck-bane ; 
And through the whins, and by the cairn, 
Whare hunter's fand the murder'd bairn ; 
And near the thorn, aboon the well, 
Whare IMungo's mither hang'd hersell." 

None of these tragic memoranda were derived from imagination. Nor was 
Tarn o' Shanter himself an imaginary character. Shanter is a farm close 
to Kirkoswald's, that smuggling village, in which Burns, when nineteen 
years old, studied mensuration, and " first became acquainted with scenes 
of swaggering riot." The then occupier of Shanter, by name Douglas 

• " The manufacturer's term for a fine linen, woven on a reed of 1 700 divisions." — Cromek. 

•\ The above is quoted from a JMS. journal of Cromek. I\Ir. M'Diarmid confirms the 
statement, and adds, that the poet, having committed the verses to writing on the top of his 
tod.dyke over the water, came into the house, and read them immediately in high triumph at 
the fireside. 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS, Ixxxlx 

Grahame, was, by all accounts, equally v»'hat the Tarn of the poet appears, 
-—a jolly, careless, rustic, who took much more interest in the contraband 
traffic of the coast, than the rotation of crops. Burns knew the man well ; 
and to his dying day, he, nothing loath, passed among his rural compeers 
by the name of Tarn o' Shanter. 

A few words will bring us to the close of Burns's career at Elliesland.- 
Mr. Ramsay of Ochtertyre, happening to pass through Nithsdale in 1790, 
met Burns riding rapidly near Closeburn. The poet was obliged to pursue 
his professional journey, but sent on Mr. Ranjsay and his fellow-traveller 
to Elliesland, where he joined them as soon as his duty permitted him, 
saying, as he entered, " I come, to use the words of Shakspearc, stewed 
in haste." Mr. Ramsay was " much pleased with his uxor Sabina qualis, 
and his modest mansion, so unlike the habitation of ordinary rustics." 
The evening was spent delightfully. A gentleman of dry temperament, 
who looked in accidentally, soon partook tlie contagion, and sat listen- 
ing to Burns with the tears running over his cheeks. " Poor Burns!" says 
Mr. Ramsay, " from that time I met him no more." 

The summer after, some English travellers, calling at Elliesland, were 
told that the poet was walking by the river. They proceeded in search of 
him, and presently, " on a rock that projected into the stream, they saw 
a man employed in angling, of a singular appearance. He had a cap made 
of a fox's skin on his head ; a loose great-coat, fastened round him by a 
belt, from which depended an enormous Highland broadsv/ord. It was 
Burns. He received them v/ith great cordiality, and asked them to share 
his humble dinner," These travellers also classed the evening they spent 
at Elliesland with the brightest of their lives. 

Towards the close of 1791, the poet, finally despairing of his farm, de- 
termined to give up his lease, which the kindness of his landlord rendered 
easy of arrangement ; and procuring an appointment to the Dumfries divi- 
sion, which raised his salary from the revenue to £70 per annum, removed 
his family to the county town, in which he terminated his days. His con- 
duct as an excise officer had hitherto met with uniform approbation ; and 
he nourished warm hopes of being promoted, when he had thus avowedly 
devoted himself altogether to the service. He left Elliesland, however, 
with a heavy heart. The affection of his neighbours was rekindled in all its 
early fervour by the thoughts of parting with him ; and the roup of his 
farming-stock and other effects, was, in spite of whisky, a very melancholy 
scene. The competition for his chatties was eager, each being anxious to 
secure a memorandum of Burns's residence among them. It is pleasing to 
know, that among other " titles manifold" to their respect and gratitude, 
Burns had superintended the fonnation of a subscription library in the parish. 
His letters to the booksellers on this subject do him much honour: his 
choice of authors (which business was naturally left to his discretion) being 
in the highest degree judicious. Such institutions arc now conmion, almost 
universal, indeed, in all the rural districts of soutliern Scotland ; but it 
should never be forgotten that Burns was among the first, if not the very 
first, to set the example. " He was so good," says Mr. Riddel, " as to 
take the whole management of this concern ; lie was treasurer, librarian, 
and censor, to our little society, who will long have a grateful sense oi' his 
public spirit, and exertions for their improvement and information." Once, 
and only once, did Burns quit his residence at Elliesland to revisit Edin- 
burgh. His object was to close accounts with Creech ; that business ac* 

14 



xc LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

complished, he returned immediately, and he never again saw the capital. 
He thus writes to Mrs. Dunlop : — " To a man who has a home, however 
humble and remote, if that home is, like mine, the scene of domestic com- 
fort, the bustle of Edinburgh will soon be a business of sickening disgust — 

" Vain pomp and glor of the world, I hate you !" 

" When I must skulk into a corner, lest the rattling equipage of some gap- 
ing blockhead should mangle me in the mire, I am tempted to exclaim, 
what merits had he had, or what demerits have I- had, in some state of 
pre-existence, that he is ushered into this state of being with the sceptre 
of rule, and the key of riches in his puny fist, and I kicked into the world, 
the sport of folly or the victim of pride .... often as I have glided with 
humble stealth through the pomp of Prince's Street, it has suggested itself 
to me as an improvement on the present human figure, that a man, in pro- 
portion to his own conceit of his consequence in the world, could have 
pushed out the longitude of his common size, as a snail pushes out his 
horns, or as we draw out a perspective." 



CHAPTER VIII. 

Contents Is more hcsct in tiiwn than country — His early biographers, (Dr. Currie not ex- 
cepted), have cohmreil too Jiirklij under that hendl — It is not correct to speak of the poet as 
hdvitip su7ik info a toper, or a soUtarjj drinker, or of his revels as other than occasional, or of 
their havinr/ interfered tcith ti'ie pnnctiitil disehanjc of his official duties — He is shown to 
have been the affectiona.'c and beloied husband, althoiiyh passing follies imputed; and the 
constant and most assiduous instructor of his children — Impidses of the French Revolution 
— Symptoms of fraternizing — The afttntion of his official superiors is called to them — Prac- 
tically no blow is inflicted, only the bud name — Interesting details of this period — Gives his 
whole soul to song making — Preference in, that for his native dialect, with the other attend- 
ant facts, as to that portion if his immortal lays. 



" The King's most humble servant, I 
Can scarcely spare a minute ; 
But I am yours at dinner-time, 
Or else the devil's in it." * 

The four principal biographers of our poet, Heron, Currie, Walker, and 
Irving, concur in tlie general statement, that his moral course from the 
time when he settled in Dumfries, was downwards. Heron knew more of 
the matter personally than any of the others, and his words are these : — 
*' In Dumfries his dissipation became still more deeply habitual. He was 
here exposed more than in the country, to be solicited to share the riot 
of the dissolute and tlie idle. Foolish young men, such as writers' ap- 
prentices, young surgeons, merchants' clerks, and his brother excise- 
men, flocked eagerly about him, and from time to time pressed him to 
drink with them, that they might enjoy his wicked wit. The Caledonian 
Club, too, and the Dumfries and Galloway Hunt, had occasional meet- 
ings in Dumfries after Burns came to reside there, and the poet was of 
course invited to share their hospitality, and hesitated not to accept the 
invitation. The morals of the town were, in consequence of its becom- 
ing so much the scene of public amusement, not a little corrupted, and 
though a husband and a father, Burns did not escape suffering by the gene- 
ral contamination, in a manner which I forbear to describe. In the inter- 
vals between his different fits of intemperance, he suffered the keenest an- 
guish of remorse and horribly afflictive foresight. His Jean behaved with 
a degree of maternal and conjugal tenderness and prudence, which made 
him feel more bitterly the evils of his misconduct, though they could not 
reclaim him." — This picture, dark as it is, wants some distressing shades 
that mingle in the parallel one by Dr. Currie ; it wants nothing, however, 
of which truth demands the insertion. That Burns, dissipated, ere he went 
to Dumfries, became still more dissipated in a town, than he had been in 
the country, is certain. It may also be true, that his wife had her own 

" "The above answer to an invitation was written extempore OQ a leaf tom from his £](• 



xcli LIFE OF ROBERT BURN'S. 

particular causes, sometimes, for dissatisfaction. But that Burns ever sunk 
into a toper — that he ever was addicted to solitary drinking — that his bot- 
tle ever interfered with his discharge of his duties as an exciseman — or 
that, in spite of some transitory follies, he ever ceased to be a most affec- 
tionate husband — all these charges have been insinuated — and they are all 
false. His intemperance was, as Heron says, in^;** ; his aberrations of all 
kinds were occasional, not. systematic ; they were all to himself the sources 
of exquisite misery in the retrospect ; they were the aberrations of a man 
whose moral sense was never deadpned ; — of one who encountered more 
temptations from without and from within, than the immense majority of 
mankind, far from having to contend against, are even able to imagine ; — 
of one, linally, who prayed for pardon, where alone effectual pardon could 
be found ; — and who died ere he had reached that term of life up to which 
the passions of many, who, their mortal career being regarded as a whole, 
are honoured as among the most virtuous of mankind, have proved too 
strong for the control of reason. We have already seen that the poet was 
careful of decorum in all things during the brief space of his prosperity at 
EUiesland, and that he became less so on many points, as the prospects of 
his farming speculation darkened around him. It seems to be equally certain, 
that he -entertained high hopes of promotion in the excise at the period of 
his removal to Dumfries ; and that the comparative recklessness of his 
later conduct there, was consequent on a certain overclouding of these pro- 
fessional expectations. The case is broadly stated so by Walker and Paul ; 
and there are hints to the same effect in the narrative of Currie. The 
statement has no doubt been exaggerated, but it has its foundation in truth ; 
and by the kindness of Mr. Train, supervisor at Castle Douglas in Gallo- 
way, I shall presently be enabled to give some details which may throw 
light on this business. 

Burns was much patronised when in Edinburgh by the Honourable Henry 
Erskine, Dean of the Faculty of Advocates, and other leading Whigs of 
the place — mucli more so, to their honour be it said, than by any of the 
influential adherents of the then administration. His landlord at EUies- 
land, Mr. Miller of Dalswinton, his neighbour, Mr. Riddel of Friars- Carse, 
and most of the other gentlemen who showed him special attention, belong- 
ed to the same political party ; and, on his removal to Dumfries, it so hap- 
pened, that some of his immediate superiors in the revenue service of the 
district/ and other persons of standing authority, into whose society he was 
thrown, entertained sentiments of the same description. Burns, whenever 
in his letters he talks seriously of political matters, uniformly describes his 
early jacobitism as mere " matter of fancy." It may, however, be easily 
believed, that a fancy like his, long indulged in dreams of that sort, v/as 
well prepared to pass into certain other dreams, which likewise involved 
feelings of dissatisfaction with " the existing order of things." Many of 
the old elements of political disaffection in Scotland, put on a new shape at 
the outbreaking of the French llevolution ; and Jacobites became half jaco- 
bins, ere they were at all aware in what the doctrines of jacobinism were 
to end. The Whigs naturally regarded the first dawn of freedom in France 
with feelings of sympathy, delight, exultation. The general, the all but 
universal tone of feeling was favourable to the first assailants of the Bour- 
bon despotism ; and ther^ were few who more ardently participated in the 
general sentiment of the day than Burns. Tlie revulsion of feeling that 
took place in this country at large, when wanton atrocities began to stain 



LIFI- OF ROBERT BURXS. xciii 

the course of jthe French Revokit4on,>and Burke lifted his powerful voice, 
was great. Scenes more painful at the time, and more so even now in the 
retrospect, than had for generations afflicted ' Scotland, were the conse- 
quences of the rancour into which party feelings on both sides now rose and 
fermented. Old and dear ties of friendship were torn in sunder ; society 
v>-as for a time shaken to its centre. In the most extravagant dreams of 
the Jacobites there had always been much to command respect, high chi- 
valrous devotion, reverence for old affections, ancestral loj'alty, and the 
generosity of romance. In the new species of hostility, every thing seemed 
mean as well as perilous ; it was scorned even more than hated. The very 
name stained whatever it came near ; and men that liad known and loved 
each other from boyhood, stood aloof, if this influence interfered, as if it 
had been some loathsome pestilence. 

There was a great deal of stately Toryism at this time in the town of 
Dumfries, which was the favourite winter retreat of many of the best gen- 
tlemen's families of the south of Scotland. Feelings that worked more 
violently in Edinburgh than in London, acquired additional energy still, in 
this provincial capital. All men's eyes were upon Burns. He was the 
standing marvel of the place ; his toasts, his jokes, his epigrams, his songs, 
were the daily food of conversation and scandal ; and he, open and care- 
less, and thinking he did no great harm in saying and singing what many 
of his superiors had not the least objection to hear and applaud, soon be- 
gan to be considered among the local admirers and disciples of King George 
the Third and his m.inister, as the most dangerous of all the apostles of se- 
dition, — and to be shunned accordingly. 

The records of the Excise-Office are silent concerning the suspicioiis 
>vhich the Commissioners of the time certainly took up in regard to Burns 
3s a political offender — according to the phraseology of the tempestuous 
period, a democrat. In that department, as then conducted, I am assured 
that nothing could have been more unlike the usual course of things, than 
that one syllabic should have been set down in writing on such a subject, 
unless the case had been one of extremities. That an inquiry was insti- 
tuted, we know from Burns's own letters — but what the er.act teniiination 
of the inquiry was, will never, in all probabilit)'', be ascertained. Accord- 
ing to the tradition of the neighbourliood, Burns, inter alia, gave great of- 
fence by demurring in a large mixed company to the proposed toast, " the 
health of Vv'illiam Pitt ;" and left the room in indignation, because the so- 
ciety rejected Avhat he wished to substitute, namely, " the health of a 
greater and a better man, George Washington." I suppose the v/armest 
admirer of JMr. Pitt's talents and politics wotild hardly venture now-a-days 
to dissent substantially from Burns's estimate of the com.parative merits of 
these two great men. The name of Washington, at all events, when con- 
temporary passions shall have finally sunk into the peace of the grave, will 
unquestionably have its place in the first rank of heroic virtue, — a station 
which demands the exhibition of victory pure and unstained over tempta- 
tions and trials extraordinary, in kind as well as strength. But at the time 
when Burns, being a servant of ]Mr. Pitt's government, was guilty of this 
indiscretion, it is obvious that a great deal " more was meant than reached 
the ear." In the poet's own correspondence, Ave have traces of another oc- 
currence of the same sort. Burns thus writes to a gentleman at whose 
table he had dined the day before : — " I was, I know, drunk last night, but 
I am sober this morning. From the expressions Captain ■■ - ■ made use 



xdlv Life of robert burn's. 

of to me, had I liad nobody's welfare to care for but my own, wc should 
certainly have come, according to tlie manner of tlie world, to the neces- 
sity of murdering one another about the business. The words were such 
as generally, I believe, end in a brace of pistols ; but I am still pleased to 
think that I did not ruin the peace and welfare of a wife and children in 
a drunken squabble. Farther, you know that the report of certain political 
opinions being mine, lias already once before brought me to the brink of 
destruction. I dread last night's business may be interpreted in the same 
way. You, I beg, will take care to prevent it. I tax your wish for Mrs. 
Burns's welfare with the task of waiting on every gentleman who was pre- 
sent to state this to him ; and, as you please, show this letter. What, af- 
ter all, was the obnoxious toast ? Muy our success in the present war be equal 
to the justice of our cause — a toast that the most outrageous frenzy of loyalty 
cannot object to." — Burns, no question, was guilty of unpoliteness as well 
as indiscretion, in offering any such toasts as these in mixed company ; but 
that such toasts should have been considered as attaching any grave sus- 
picion to his character as a loyal subject, is a circumstance which can only 
be accounted for by reference to the exaggerated state of political feelings 
on all matters, and among all descriptions of men, at that melancholy pe- 
riod of disaffection, distrust, and disunion. Who, at any other period than 
that lamentable time, would ever have dreamed of erecting the drinking, 
or declining to drink, the health of a particular minister, or the approving, 
or disapproving, of a particular measure of eovernment, into the test of a 
man's loyalty to his King ? 

Burns, eager of temper, loud of tone, and with declamation and sarcasm 
equally at command, was, we may easily believe, the most hated of human 
beings, because the most dreaded, among the provincial champions of the 
administration of which he thought fit to disapprove. But that he ever, in 
his most ardent moods, upheld the principles of those whose applause of 
the French Revolution was but the mask of revolutionary designs at home, 
after these principles had been really developed by those that maintained 
them, and understood by him, it may be safely denied. There is not, in 
all his correspondence, one syllable to give countenance to such a charge. 
His indiscretion, however, did not always confine itself to words; and 
though an incident now about to be recorded, belongs to the year 1792, 
before the French war broke out, there is reason to believe that it formed 
the main subject of the inquiry which the Excise Commissioners thought 
themselves called upon to institute touching the politics of our poet. 

At that period a great deal of contraband traffic, chiefly from the Isle of 
Man, was going on along the coasts of Galloway and Ayrshire, and the 
wliole of the revenue officers from Gretna to Dumfries, were placed under 
the orders of a superintendent residing in Annan, who exerted himself 
zealously in intercepting the descent of the smuggling vessels. On the 
27th of February, a suspicious-looking brig was discovered in the Solway 
Frith, and Burns was one of the party whom the superintendent conducted 
to watch her motions. She got into shallow water the day afterwards, and 
the officers were enabled to discover that her crew were numerous, armed, 
and not likely to yield without a struggle. Lewars, a brother exciseman, 
an intimate friend of our poet, was accordingly sent to Dumfries for a 
guard of dragoons ; the superintendent, Mr. Crawford, proceeded himself 
on a similar errand to Ecclefechan, and Burns was left with some men un- 
der his orders, to watch the brig, and prevent landing or escape. From 



LIFE OF ROBEIIT BURKS. ntv 

the private journal of one of the excisemen, (now in my hands), it appears 
that Burns manifested considerable impatience while thus occupied, being 
left for many hours in a wet salt-marsh, with a force whicli he knew to be 
inadequate for the purpose it was meant to fulfil. One of his comrades 
hearing him abuse his friend Lewars in particular, for being slow about his 
journey, the man answered, that he also wished the devil had him for his 
pains, and that Burns, in the meantime, would do well to indite a song upon 
the sluggard : Burns said nothing ; but after taking a few strides by himself 
among the reeds and shingle, rejoined his party, and chanted to them this 
well-known ditty : — 

" The de'il cam' fiddling thro' the town. 
And danc'd awa' wi' the Exciseman ; 
And ilk auld wife cry'd, ' Auld Mahoun, 
' We wish you luck o' tlie prize, man. 

Chorus ' We'll mak' our maut, and brew our drink, 

' We'll dance and sing and rejoice, man ; 
' And mony thanks to the muckle black de'il, 
' That danc'd awa' wi' the Exciseman. 

' There's threesome reels, and foursome reels, 
' There's hornpipes and strathspeys, man ; 
' But the ae best dance e'er cam' to our Ian', 
' Was the deil's awa' wi' the Exciseman.' " 

Lewars arrived shortly afterwards with his dragoons ; and Burns, putting 
himself at their head, waded, sword in hand, to the brig, and was the first to 
board her. The crew lost heart, and submitted, though their numbers were 
greater than those of the assailing force. The vessel was condemned, and, 
with all her arms and stores, sold by auction next day at Dumfries : upon 
which occasion Burns, whose behaviour had been highly commended, 
thought fit to purchase four carronades, by way of trophy. But his glee 
went a step farther ; — he sent the guns, with a letter, to the French Con- 
vention, requesting that body to accept of them as a mark of his admiration 
and respect. The present, and its accompaniment, were intercepted at the 
custom-house at Dover ; and here, there appears to be little room to doubt, 
was the principal circumstance that drew on Burns the notice of his jealous 
superiors. We were not, it is true, at war with France ; but every one 
knew and felt that we were to be so ere long ; and nobody can pretend 
that Burns was not guilty, on this occasion, of a most absurd and presump- 
tuous breach of decorum. When he learned the impression that had been 
created by his conduct, and its probable consequences, he wrote to his pa- 
tron, Mr. Graham of Fintray, the following letter, dated December 179^ : 

" Sir, — I have been surprised, confounded, and distracted by Mr. Mit- 
chell, the collector, telling me that he has received an order from your 
board to inquire into my political conduct, and blaming me as a person 
disaffected to government. Sir, you are a husband and a father. You 
know what you would feel to see the much-loved wife of your bosom, and 
your helpless, prattling little ones turned adrift into the world, degraded 
and disgraced, from a situation in which they had been respectable and re- 
spected, and left almost without the necessary support of a miserable exist- 
ence. Alas ! Sir, must I think that such soon will be my lot? and from the 
damned dark insinuations of hellish, groundless envy too ? I beheve. Sir, I 
may aver it, and in the sight of Omniscience, that I would not tell a deli- 



Xcvt LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

berate falsehood, no, not though even worse horrors, if worse can be, than 
those I have mentioned, liung over my head. And I say that the allega- 
tion, whatever villain has made it, is a lie. To the British Constitution, 
on revolution principles, next, after my God, I am most devoutlv attached. 
You, Sir, have been much and generously my friend. Heaven knows how 
warmly I have felt the obligation, and how gratefully I have thanked you. 
Fortune, Sir, has made you powerful, and me impotent ; has given you pa- 
tronage, and me dependence. I would not, for my single self, call on your 
humanity : were such my insular, unconnected situation, 1 would disperse 
the tear that now swells in my eye ; I could brave misfortune ; I could face 
ruin ; at the worst, ' death's thour.and doors stand open.' But, good God ! 
the tender concerns that I have mentioned, the claims and ties that I see 
at this moment, and feel around me, how they unnerve courage and wither 
resolution ! To your patronage, as a man of some genius, you have ollowed 
me a claim ; and your esteem, as :m lioncst man, I know is my due. To 
these. Sir, permit me to appeal. By these may I adjure you to save me 
from that misery which threatens to overv/hclm me ; and which, with my 
latest breath, 1 will say I have not deserved !" 

On the "^d of January, (a week or tv.'o afterwards), we find him writing to 
Mrs. Dunlop in these terms : — '' Mr. C. can be of little service to me at 
present ; at least, 1 sliould be shy of applying. I cannot probably be set- 
tled as a supervisor for several years. I- nmst wait the rotation of lists, 
&c. Besides, some envious malicious devil has raised a little demur on my 
political principles, and I wish to let that matter settle before I offer my- 
self too much in the eye of my superiors. 1 have set henceforth a seal on 
my lips, as to these unlucky politics ; but to you I must breathe my senti- 
ments. In this, as in every thing else, I shall show the undisguised emo- 
tions of my soul. War, I deprecate : misery and ruin to thousands are in 
the blast that announces the destructive demon. But " 

" The remainder of this letter," says Cromek, " has been torn away by 
some barbarous hand." — There can be little doubt that it was torn away by 
one of the kindest hands in the world, that of Mrs. Dunlop herself, and 
from the most praise-worth motive. 

The exact result of the Excise Board's investigation is hidden, as has 
been said above, in obscurity ; nor is it at all likely that the cloud will be 
withdrawn hereafter. A general impression, however, appears to have 
gone forth, that the affair terminated in something which Burns himself 
considered as tantamount to the destruction of aW hope of future promo- 
tion in liis profession ; and it has been insinuated by almost every one ot 
his biographers, that the crushing of these hopes operated unhappily, even 
fatally, on the tone of his mind, and, in consequence, on the habits of his 
life. In a word, the early death of Burns has been (by implication at least) 
ascribed mainly to the circumstances in question. F.ven Sir Walter Scott 
has distinctly intimated his acquiescence in this prevalent notion. " The 
political predilections," says he, " for they could hardly be termed princi- 
ples, of Burns, were entirely determined by his feelings. At his first ap- 
pearance, he felt, or affected, a propensity to Jacobitism. Indeed, a youth 
of his warm imagination in Scotland thirty years ago, could hardly escape 
this bias. The side of Charles Edward was that, not surely of sound sense 
and sober reason, but of romantic gallantry and high achievement. The 
inadequacy of the means by which that prince attempted to regain the 
crown forfeited by his fathers, the strange and almost poetical adventures 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. jtcVU 

which he underwent,— the Scottish martial character, honoured in his vic- 
tories, and degraded and crushed in his defeat, — the tales of the veterans 
who had followed his adventurous standard, were all calculated to impress 
upon the mind of a poet a warm interest in the cause of the House of 
Stuart. Yet the impression was not of a very serious cast ; for Burns him- 
self acknowledges in one of his letters, (Reliques, p. 240), that ' to tell 
the matter of fact, except when my passions were heated by some acci- 
dental cause, my Jacobitism was merely by way of vive la bagatelle.' The 
same enthusiastic ardour of disposition swayed Burns in his choice of poli- 
tical tenets, when the country was agitated by revolutionary principles. 
That the poet should have chosen the side on which high talents were 
most likely to procure celebrity ; that he to whom the fastidious distinc- 
tions of society were always odious, should have listened with compla- 
cence to the voice of French philosophy, which denounced them as usur- 
pations on the rights of man, was precisely the thing to be expected. Yet 
we cannot but think, that if his superiors in the Excise department had 
tried the experiment of soothing rather than irritating his feelings, they 
might have spared themselves the disgmce of rendering desperate the pos- 
sessor of such uncommon talents. For it is but too certain, that from the 
moment his hopes of promotion were utterly blasted, his tendency to dis- 
sipation hurried him precipitately into those excesses which shortened his 
life. We doubt not, that in that awftl period of national discord, he had 
done and said enough to deter, in ordinary cases, the servants of govern- 
ment from countenancing an avowed par tizan of faction. But this partizan 
was Burns ! Surely the experiment of lenity might have been tried, and 
perhaps successfully. The conduct of Mr. Graham of Fintray, our poet's 
only shield against actual dismission and consequent ruin, reflects the high- 
est credit on that gentleman." 

In the general strain of sentimait in this passage, who can refuse to 
concur ? but I am bound to sa}"^, that after a careful examination of all the 
documents, printed and MS., to vhich I have had access, I have great 
doubts as to some of the principal facts assumed in this eloquent state- 
ment. I have before me, for example, a letter of Mr. Findlater, formerly 
Collector at Glasgow, who was, at the period in question, Burns's imme- 
diate superior in the Dumfries district, in which that veiy respectable per- 
son distinctly says : — " I may venture to assert, that when Burns was ac- 
cused of a leaning to democracy, and an inquiry into his conduct took 
place, he was subjected, in consequence thereof, to no more than perhaps 
a verbal or private caution to be more circumspect in future. Neither do 
I believe his promotion was tfereby affected, as has been stated. That, 
had he lived, would, I have every reason to think, have gone on in the 
usual routine. His good and steady friend Mr. Graham would have attended 
to this. What cause, tlierefoie, was there for depression of spirits on thi ; 
account ? or how should he have been hurried thereby to a premature 
grave ? / never saw his spirit fail till he was borne down by the pressure 
of disease and bodily weakness ; and even then it would occasionally revive, 
and like an expiring lamp, emit bright flashes to the last." 

When the w^ar had fairly broken out, a battalion of volunteers was form- 
ed in Dumfries, and Burns was an original member of the corps. It is 
very true that his accession was objected to by some of his neighbours ; 
but these were over- ruled by the gentlemen who took the lead in the busi- 
ness, and the poet soon became, as might have been expected, the great- 

15 



XCTui UFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

eat possible favourite with his brothers in arms. His commanding officer, 
Colonel De Peyster, attests his zealous discharge of his duties as a mem- 
ber of the corps ; and their attachment to him was on the increase to the 
Jast. He was their laureate, and in that capacity did more good service to 
the government of the country, at a crisis of the darkest alarm and dan- 
ger, than perhaps any one person of his rank and station, with the ex- 
ception of Dibdin, had the power or the inclination to render. " Burns," 
says Allan Cunningham, " was a zealous lover of his country, and has 

stamped his patriotic feelings in many a lasting verse His poor and 

honest Sodger laid hold at once on the public feeling, and it was every- 
where sung with an enthusiasm which only began to abate when Campbell's 
Exile of Erin and Wounded Hussar were published. Dumfries, which 
sent so many of her sons to the wars, rung with it from port to port ; and 
the poet, wherever he went, heai'd it echoing from house and hall. I wish 
this exquisite and useful song, with Scots wha fuie wi Wallace bled, — the 
So7tff of Death, and Does haughti} Gaul Invasion TJireat, — all lyrics which 
enforce a love of country, and a nartial enthusiasm into men's breasts, had 
obtained some reward for the poet. His perishable conversation was re- 
membered by the rich to his prejudice — his imperishable lyrics were re- 
warded only by the admii-ation and tears of his fellow peasants." 

Lastly, whatever the rebuke of the Excise Board amounted to — (Mr. 
James Gray, at that time scboolm;.ster in Dumfries, and seeing much of 
Burns both as the teacher of his ch'ldren, and as a personal friend and as- 
sociate of literary taste and talent, is the only person who gives any thing 
like an exact statement : and accoixling to him. Burns was admonished 
" that it was his busincsr- to act. not to think") — in whatever language tlie 
censure was clothed, tlie l-.xcise Board ilid nothing from which Burns had 
any cause to suppose that iiis hopes of ultimate promotion were extinguish- 
ed. Nay, if he had taken up sutli ;. notion, rightly or erroneously, Mr. 
Findlater, who had him eoiistuntly unt'cr his eye, and who enjoyed all his 
confidence, and who enjoyed then, as \c still enjoys, the utmost confidence 
of the Board, must have known the fict to be so. .Such, I cannot help 
thinking, is the fair view of the case : at ail events, we know that Burns, 
the year before he died, was permitted -.o act as a Supervisor ; a thing not 
likely to have occurred had there been any resolution against promoting 
him in his proper order to a permanent situation of that superior rank. 

On the whole, then, I am of opinion that the Excise Board have been 
dealt with harshly, when men of eminence have talked of their conduct to 
Burns as affixing disgrace to them. It appears that Burns, being guilty 
unquestionably of great indiscretion and indecorum both of word and deed, 
was admonished in a private manner, that at such a period of national dis- 
traction, it behoved a public officer, gifted vith talents and necessarily with 
influence like his, very carefully to abstain from conduct which, now that 
passions have had time to cool, no sane mar will say became his situation : 
that Burns's subsequent conduct effaced the unfavourable impression creat- 
ed in the minds of his superiors ; and that he had begun to taste the fruits 
of their recovered approbation and confidence, ere his career was closed by 
illness and death. These Commissioners of Excise were themselves sub- 
ordinate officers of the government, and strictly responsible for those un- 
der them. That they did try the experiment of lenity to a certain extent, 
appears to be made out ; that they could have been justified in trying it to a 
farther extent, is at the least doubtful. But with regard to the government 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xdx 

bf the couftti*}' itself, I mast say I think it is much more difficult to defend 
them. Mr, Pitt's ministry gaveDibdin a pension of £200 a-year for writ- 
ing his Sea Songs ; and one cannot help remembering, that when Burns did 
begin to excite the ardour and patriotism of his countrymen by such songs 
as Mr. Cunningham has been alluding to, there were persons who had 
every opportunity of representing to the Premier the claims of a greater 
than Dibdin. Lenity, indulgence, to whatever length carried in such 
quarters as these, woukl have been at once safe and graceful. What the 
minor politicians of the day thought of Burns's poetry I know not ; but 
Mr. Pitt himself appreciated it as highly as any man. " I can think of 
no verse," said the great Minister, when Burns was no more^-" I can think 
of no verr,e since Shakspcarc's, that lias so much the appearance of com- 
ing sweetly from nature." * 

Had Burns put forth some newspaper squibs upon Lepaux or Carnot, or 
a smart pamphlet " On the State of the Country," he might have been 
more attended to in his lifetime. It is common to say, " what is every- 
body's business is nobody's business ;" but one may be pardoned for think- 
ing that in such cases as this, that which the general voice of the country 
does admit to be everybody's business, comes in fact to be the business of 
those whom the nation intrusts with national concerns. 

To return to Sir Walter Scott's reviewal — it seems that lie has some- 
what overstated the political indiscretions of which Burns was actually 
guilty. Let us hear the counter-statement of Mr. Gray, f who, as has al- 
ready been mentioned, cnjoj^cd Burns's intimacy and confidence during his 
residence in Dumfries. — No one who ever knew anything of that excellent 
man, will for a moment suspect him of giving any other than what he be- 
lieves to be true. 

'• Burns (saya he) was enthusiastically fond of liberty, and a lover of the 
popular part of our constitution ; but he saw and admired the just and de- 
licate proportions of the political fabric, and nothing could be farther from 
liis aim than to level with the dust the venerable pile reared by the labours 
and the wisdom of ages. That provision of the constitution, however, by 
which it is made to contain a self-correcting principle, obtained no incon- 
siderable share of his admiration : he was, therefore, a zealous advocate of 
constitutional reform. The necessity of this he often supported in conver- 
sation with all the energy of an irresistible eloquence ; but there is no evi- 
dence that he ever went farther. He was a member of no political club. 
At the time when, in certain societies, the mad cry of revolution was rais- 
ed from one end of the kingdom to the other, his voice was never heard in 
their debates, nor did he ever support their opinions in writing, or corre- 
spond with them in any form whatever. Though limited to an income 
which any other man would have considered poverty, he refused i." .50 a- 
year offered to him for a weekly article, by the proprietors of an opposition 
paper ; and two reasons, equally honourable to him, induced him to reject 
this proposal. His independent spirit spurned indignantly the idea of be- 

" I am assured that Mr. Pitt used these words at the table of the late Lord Liverpool, 
soon after Burns's death. How that event might come to be a natural topic of conversation 
at that table, will be seen in the sequel. 

■f Mr. Gray removed from the sdiool of Dumfries to the High School of Edinburgh, in 
which eminent seminary he for many years laboured with distinguished success. He tlien be- 
came Professor of Latin in the Institution at Belfast ; he afterwards entered into holy orders, 
and died a few years since in the East Indies, as officiating chanlAin to the Company in the 
presidency of Madras. 



C LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

coming the hireling of a party ; and whatever may have been his opinion 
of the men and measures that then prevailed, he did not think it right to 
fetter the operations of that government by which he was employed." 

The satement about the newspaper, refers to Mr. Perry of the Morning 
Chronicle, who, at the suggestion of Mr. Miller of Dalswinton, made the 
proposal referred to, and received for answer a letter which may be seen 
in the General Correspondence of our poet, and the tenor of which is in 
accordance with what INIr. Gray has said. Mr. Perry afterwards pressed 
Burns to settle in London as a regular writer for his paper, and the poet 
declined to do so, alleging that, however small, his Excise appointment 
was a certainty, which, in justice to his family, he could not think of aban- 
doning. * 

Burns, after the Excise inquiry, took care, no doubt, to avoid similar 
scrapes ; but he had no reluctance to meddle largely and zealously in the 
squabbles of county politics and contested elections ; and thus, by merely 
espousing, on all occasions, the cause of the Whig candidates, kept up very 
effectually the spleen which the Tories had originally conceived on tolera- 
bly legitimate grounds. One of the most celebrated of these effusions was 
written on a desperately contested election for the Dumfries district of 
boroughs, between Sir James Johnstone of Westerhall, and Mr. Miller the 
younger of Dalswinton ; Burns, of course, maintaining the cause of his pa- 
tron's family. There is much humour in it : — 

THE FIVE CARLINES. 

1. There were five carlines in the south, they fell upon a scheme, 
To send a lad to Lunnun town to bring them tidings hame, 
Nor only bring them tidings hame, but do their errands there. 
And aiblins gowd and honour baith might be that laddie's share. 

2. There was Maggy by the banks o' Nith, -j- a dame w' pride eneugh, 
And Marjorj o' the Monylochs, J a carline auld and teugh ; 

And blinkin Bess o' Annandale, | that dwelt near Solway-side, 
And whisky Jean that took her gill in Galloway sae wide ; |1 
And black Joan frac Crichton Peel, % o' gipsy kith and kin,— t 
Five wighter carlines war na foun' the south countrie within. 

3. To send a lad to Lunnun town, they met upon a day. 

And mony a knight and mony a laird their errand fain wad gae. 
But nae ane could their fancy please ; O ne'er a anc but tway. 

4. The first he was a belted knight, ** bred o' a border clan, 
And he. wad gae to Lunnun town, might nae man him withstan'. 
And he wad do theii errands weel, and meikle he wad say, 
And ilka ane at Lunnun court would bid to him gude day. 

&. The next came in a sodger youth, -f-f" and spak wi' modest grace, 
And he wad gae to Lunnun town, if sae their pleasure was ; 
He wadna hecht them courtlv gifts, nor meikle speech pretend. 
But he wad hecht an honest lieart, wad ne'er desert a friend. 

6. Now, wham to choose and wham refuse, at strife thir carlines fell, 
For some had gentle folks to please, and some wad please themsell. 

7. Then out spak mim-mou'd ]\Ieg o' Nith, and she spak up wi' pride, 
And she wad send the sodger youth, whatever might betide ; 

For the auld guidman o' Lunnun J:^ court she didna care a pin ; 
But she wad send the sodger youth to greet his eldest son. §§ 

• This is stated on the authority of Major Miller. 

+ Dumfries. ± Lachmaben. § Annan. || Kirkcudbflghb 

% Sanquhar. *• Sir J, Johnstone. f f Major Miller, 

tt George III. ti§ The Prince of Wales. 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. ci 

fl. Then up sprang Bess o' Annandale, and a deadly aith she's taen, 
That she wad vote the border knight, though she should vote her lane ; 
For far-afF fowls hae feathers fair, and fools o' change are fain ; 
But 1 hae tried the border knight, and I'll try him yet again. 

9. Says black Joan frae Crichton Peel, a carline stoor and grim, 

The auld guidman, and the young guidman, for me may sink or swim ; 
For fools will freat o' right or wrang, while knaves laugh them to scorn ; 
But the sodger's friends hae blawn the best, so he shall bear the horn. 

10. Then whisky Jean spak ower her drink. Ye weel ken, kimmers a'» 
The auld guidman o' Lunnun court, he's back's been at the wa' ; 
And mony a friend that kiss't his cup, is now a fremit wight. 

But it's ne'er be said o' whisky Jean — I'll send the border knight. 

11. Then slow raise IMarjory o' tlie Lochs, and wrinkled w^s her brow, 
Her ancient weed was russet gray, her auld Scots bluid was true ; 
There's some great folks set light by me, — I set as light by them ; 
But I will sen' to I^unnun toun wham I like best at name. 

12. Sae how this weighty plea may end, nae mortal wight can teU, 
God grant the King and ilka man may look weel to himsell. 

The above is far the best humoured of these productions. The election 
to which it refers was carried in Major Miller's favour, but after a severe 
contest, and at a very heavy expense. 

These political conflicts were not to be mingled in with impunity by the 
chosen laureate, wit, and orator of the district. He himself, in an unpub- 
lished piece, speaks of the terror excited by 

■ Burns's venom, when 



He dips in gall unmix'd his eager pen, 

And pours his vengeance in the burning line ;" 

and represents his victims, on one of these electioneering occasions, as 
leading a choral shout that 

He for his heresies in cluirch and state, 



Might richly merit JMuir's and Palmer's fate 

But what rendered him more and more the object of aversion to one set of 
people, was sure to connect him more strongly with the passions, and, un- 
fortunately for himself and for us, with the pleasures of the other ; and we 
have, among many confessions to the same purpose, the following, which I 
quote as the shortest, in one of the poet's letters from Dumfries to Mrs. 
Dunlop. " I am better, but not quite free of my complaint (he refers to 
the palpitation of heart.) You must not think, as you seem to insinuate, 
that in my way of life I want exercise. Of that I have enough ; but occa- 
sional hard drinking is the devil to me." He knew well what he was doing 
whenever he mingled in such debaucheries : he had, long ere this, describ- 
ed himself as parting " with a slice of his constitution" every time he was 
guilty of such excess. 

This brings us back to a subject on which it can give no one pleasure to 
expatiate. 

" Dr. Currie," says Gilbert Burns, " knowing the events of the latter 
years of my brother's life, only from the reports which had been propagat- 
ed, and thinking it necessary, lest the candour of his work should be called 
in question, to state the substance of these reports, has given a very exag- 
gerated view of the failings of my brother's life at that period, which is cer- 
tainly to be regretted." — « I love Dr. Currie," says the Rev. James Gray, 
already more than once referred to, but I love the memory of Burns more, 



cii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

and no consideration shall deter me from a bold declaration of the truth. 
The poet of The Cottars Saturday Night, Mho felt all the charms of the 
humble piety and virtue which he sun;::, is charged, (in Dr. Currie's Nar- 
rative), with vices which would reduce him to a level with the most degrad- 
ed of his species. As 1 knew him during that period of his life emphati- 
cally called his evil daj's, I am enuhled to speak from my own ohservatiou. 
It is not my intention to extenuate his errors, because they were combined 
with genius ; on that account, they w ere only the more dangerous, be- 
cause the more seductive, and deserve the more severe reprehension ; but 
I shall likewise claim that nothing may ioe said in malice even against him. 
It came under my own view professionally, that he superin- 
tended the education of his children with a degree of care that I have ne- 
ver seen surpassed by any parent in any rank of life whatever. In the bo- 
som of his family he spent many a delightful hour in directing the studies 
of his eldest son, a boy of uncommon talents. 1 have frequently found him 
explaining to this youth, then not more than nine years of age, the Eng- 
lish poets, from Shakspeare to (ira}', or storing his mind with examples of 
heroic virtue, as they live in the pages of our most celebrated English his- 
torians. I would ask any person of common candour, if employments like 
these are consistent with habitual drunhenness / 

'"■ It is not denied that he sometimes mingled with society unworthy of him. 
He was of a social and convivial nature. He Avas courted by all classes of 
men for the fascinating powers of his conversation, but over his social scene 
uncontrolled passion never presided. Over the social bowl, his wit flashed 
for hours together, jicnetrating whatever it struck, like the Hre from hea- 
ven ; but even in the hour of tliouglitlcss gaity and merriment, I never 
loiew it tainted by indecency. It ^vas playful or caustic by turns, follow- 
ing an allusion through all its windings ; astonishing by its rapidity, or 
amusing by its wild originality, and grotesque, yet natural combinations, 
but never, within my observation, di-sgusting by its grossness. In his 
morning hours, I never saw him like one suft'ering from the cHects of last 
night's intemperance. He appeared then clear and unclouded. He was 
the eloquent advocate of humanity, justice, and political freedom. IVom 
his paintings, virtue appeared more lovely, and piety assumed a more ce- 
lestial mien. Viliik- his keen eye was pregnant with fancy and i'ecling, 
and his vc)iee attuned to tlie very passion which he wished to communicate, 
it would hardly liave been possible to ccmceive an}' being more interesting 
and delightful. I may likewise add, that to the very end of his life, reading 
was his favourite amusement. I have never known any man so intimately 
acquainted with the elegant English authors. He seemed to have the 
poets by heart. The jjrose authors he could quote cither in their own 
words, or clothe their ideas in language more beautiful than their own. 
Nor was there ever any decay in an}^ of the powers of his mind. To the 
last day of his life, his judgment, his memory, his imagination, were fresh 
and vigorous, as when he composed The Cottars Saturday Night. The 
truth is, that Burns was seldom intoxicated. The drunkard soon becomes 
besotted, and is shunned even by the convivial. Had he been so, he cpuld 
not long have continued the idol of every party. It will be freely confes- 
sed, that the hour of enjoyment was often prolonged beyond the limit 
marked by prudence ; but what man will venture to affirm, that in situa- 
tions where he was conscious of giving so much pleasure, he could at all 
times have listened to her voice } 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. ciil 

" The men with whom he generally associated, were not of the lowest 
order. He numbered among his intimate friends, many of the most respec- 
table inhabitants of Dumfries and the vicinity. Several of those were at- 
tached to him by ties that the hand of calumny, busy as it was, could ne- 
ver snap asunder. They admired the poet for his genius, and loved the 
man for the candour, generosity, and kindness of his nature. His early 
friends clung to him through good and bad report, with a zeal and fidelity 
that prove their disbelief of the malicious stories circulated to his disad- 
vantage. Among them were some of the most distinguished characters in 
this country, and not a few females, eminent for delicacy, taste, and genius. 
They were proud of his friendship, and cherished him to the last moment 
of his existence. He was endeared to them even by his misfortunes, and 
they still retain for his memory that affectionate veneration which virtue 
alone inspires." 

Part of Mr. Gray's letter is omitted, only because it touches on subjects, 
as to which Mr. Findlater's statement must be considered as of not merely 
sufficient, but the very highest authority. 

" My connexion with Robert Burns," says that most respectable man, 
" commenced immediately after his admission into the Excise, and con- 
tinued to the hour of his death. * In all that time, the superintendence of 
his behaviour, as an officer of the revenue, was a branch of my especial pro- 
vince, and it may be supposed that I would not be an inattentive observer 
of the general conduct of a man and a poet, so celebrated by his country- 
men. In the former capacity, he was exemplary in his attention ; and 
was even jealous of the least imputation on his vigilance : as a proof of 
which, it may not be foreign to the subject to quote a part of a tetter from 
him to myself, in a case of only seeming inattention. — ' I know. Sir, and re- 
gret deeply, that this business glances with a malign aspect on my charac- 
ter as an officer ; but, as I am really innocent in the affair, and oS the gentle- 
man is known to be an illicit dealer, and particularly as this is the single in- 
stance of the least shadow of carelessnes or impropriety in aiy conduct as 
an officer, I shall be peculiarly unfortunate if my character shall fall a sa- 
crifice to the dark manreuvres of a smuggler.' — This of itself affords more 
than a presumption of his attention to business, as it cannot be supposed he 
would have written in such a st3de to me, but from the impulse of a consci- 
ous rectitude in this department of his duty. Indeed, .'t was not till near 
the latter end of his days that there was any falling off in this respect ; and 
this was amply accounted for in the pressure of disea-ic and accumulating 
infirmities. I will further avow, that 1 never saw hini!, which was very fre- 
quently while he lived at Elliesland, and still more so, almost every day, 
after he removed to Dumfries, but in hours of busiicss he was quite him- 
self, and capable of discharging the duties of his office ; nor was he ever 
known to drink by himsellj or seen to indulge in tlie use of liquor in a fore- 
noon. ... I have seen Burns in all his varicwis phases, in his convivial 
moments, in his sober moods, and in the boson: of his family ; indeed, I 
believe I saw more of him than any other iiuliridual had occasion to see, 
after he became an Excise oHiccr, and I never beheld any thing like the 
gross enormities with which he is now charg^^d : That when set down in 
an evening with a few friends wliom he liiad, he was apt to prolong the 
social hour beyond the bounds winch prudence would dictate, is unques- 

• Mr. Findlater watched by Burns tbe night before he died. 



cW LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

tionable ; but in his family, I will venture to say, he was never seen othei<* 
wise than attentive and affectionate to a high degree." 

These statements are entitled to every consideration : they come from 
men altogether incapable, for any purpose, of wilfully stating that which 
they know to be untrue. 

To whatever Burns's excesses amounted, they were, it is obvious, and 
that frequently, the subject of rebuke and remonstrance even from his own 
dearest friends. That such reprimands should have been received at times 
with a strange mixture of remorse and indignation, none that have consi- 
dered the nervous susceptibility and haughtiness of Burns's character can 
hear with surprise. But this was only when the good advice was oral. No 
one knew better than he how to answer the written homilies of such per- 
sons as were most likely to take the freedom of admonishing him on points 
of such delicacy ; nor is there any thing in' all his correspondence morq 
amusing than his reply to a certain solemn lecture of \\'illiam Nicoll. . . 
" O thou, wisest among the wise, meridian blaze of prudence, full moon 
of discretion, and chief of many counsellors ! how infinitely is thy puddle- 
headed, rattle-headed, wrong-headed, round-headed slave indebted to thy 
supereminent goodness, that from the luminous path of thy own right-lined 
rectitude thou lookest benignly down on an erring wretch, of Avhom the 
zig-zag wanderings defy all the powers of calculation, from the simple co- 
pulation of units, up to the hidden mysteries of fluxions ! May one feeble 
ray of that light of wisdonx which darts from thy sensorium, straight as the 
arrow of heaven, and bright as the meteor of inspiration, may it be my 
portion, so that I may be less unworthy of the face and favour of that fa- 
ther of proverbs and master of maxims, that antipod of folly, and magnet 
among the sages, the wise and witty Willy Nicoll ! Amen ! amen ! Yea, 
so be it ! 

^' For me ! I am a beast, a reptile, and know nothing !" &c. &c. &c. 

To how many that have moralized over the life and death of Burns, 
might not such a Tu guoque be addressed ! 

The strongest argument in favour of those who denounce the statements 
of Heron, Currie, and their fellow biographers, concerning the habits of the 
poet, during the latter years of his career, as culpably and egregiously ex- 
aggerated, still remains to be considered. On the whole. Burns gave sa- 
tisfaction by his minner of executing the duties of his station in the reve- 
nue service ; he, noreover, as Mr. Gray tells us, (and upon this ground 
Mr. Gray could not possibly be mistaken), took a lively interest in the edu- 
cation of his childrer», and spent more hours in their private tuition than 
fathers who have more leisure than his excisemanship left him, are often 
in the custom of so bestowing. — " lie was a kind and attentive father, and 
took great delight in spending his evenings in the cultivation of the minds 
of his children. Their -jducation was the grand object of his life, and he 
did not, like most parent:, think it sufficient to send them to public schoois ; 
he was their private instrictor, and even at that early age, bestowed great 
pains in training their minds to habits of thought and reflection, and in 
keeping them pure from ev°ry ibrm of vice. This he considered as a sa- 
cred duty, and never, to tlie period of his last illness, relaxed in his dili- 
gence. With his eldest son, a boy of not more than nine years of age, he 
had read many of the favourite poets, and some of the best historians in 
our language ; and what is more remarkable, gave him considerable aid in 
Ihe study of Latin. This boy attended the Grammar School of Dumfries, 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS, cv 

and soon attracted my notice by the strength of his talent, and the ardour 
of hi« ambition. Before he had been a year at school, I thought it right 
to advance him a form, and he began to read Caesar, and gave me transla- 
tions of that author of such beauty as I confess surprised me. On inquiry, 
I found that his father made him turn over his dictionary, till he was able 
to translate to him the passage in such a way that he could gather the au- 
thor's meaning, and that it was to him he owed that polished and forcible 
English with which I was so greatly struck. I have mentioned this inci- 
dent merely to show what minute attention he paid to this important 
branch of parental duty." * Lastly, althougli to all men's regret he wrote, 
after his removal to Dumfriesshire, only one poetical piece of considerable 
length, { Tarn o Shunter), his epistolary correspondence, and his songs to 
Johnson's Museum, and to the collection of iMr. George Thomson, furnish 
undeniable proof that, in whatever Jils of dissipation he unhappily indulg- 
ed, he never could possibly have sunk into any thing like that habitual 
grossness of manners and sottish degradation of mind, which the writers in 
question have not hesitated to hold up to the commiseration of mankind. 

Of his letters written at ElHcsland and Dumfries, nearly three octavo 
volumes have been already pi'inted by Currie and Cromek ; and it would 
be easy to swell the collection to double this extent. Enough, however, 
has been published to enable every reader to judge for himself of the cha- 
racter of Burns's style of epistolary composition. The severest criticism 
bestowed on it has been, that it is too elaborate — that, however natural 
the feelings, the expression is frequently more studied and artificial than 
belongs to that species of composition. Be this remark altogether just in 
point of taste, or otherwise, the fact on which it is founded, furnishes 
strength to our present position. The poet produced in these years a great 
body of elaborate prose-writing. 

. We have already had occasion to notice some of his contributions to 
Johnson's Museum. He continued to the last month of his life to take a 
lively interest in that work ; and besides writing for it some dozens of ex- 
cellent original songs, his diligence in collecting ancient pieces hitherto 
unpublished, and his taste and skill in eking out fragments, were largely, 
and most happily exerted, all along, for its benefit. Mr. Cromek saw 
among Johnson's papers, no fewer than 184 of the pieces which enter into 
the collection, in Burns's handwriting. 

His connexion with the more important work of Mr. Thomson commenc- 
ed in September 1792 ; and Mr. (jray justly says, that whoever considers 
his correspondence with the editor, and the collection itself, must be satis- 
fied, that from that time till the commencement of his last illness, not 
many days ever passed over his head without the production of some new 
stanzas for its pages. Besides old materials, tor the most part embellished 
with lines, if not verses of his own, and a whole body of hints, suggestions, 
and criticisms, Burns gave Mr. Thomson about sixty original songs. The 
songs in this collection are by many eminent critics placed decidedly at 
the head of all our poet's performances : it is by none disputed that very 
many of them are worthy of his most felicitous inspiration. He bestowed 
much more care on them than on his contributions to the Museum ; and 
the taste and feeling of the editor secured the work against any intrusions 
of that over-warm element which was too apt to mingle in his amatory ef- 

• Letter from the Rev. James Gray to Mr. Gilbert Burns. See his Edition, yoL L Ap- 
|i«ndix, No. v. 

16 



cvi L] F£ 1' R BE RT B U R N S. 

fusions. Burns knew that he ^vas now engaged on a work destined for the 
eye and ear of rcfincuicut ; ho laboured throughout, under the salutary feel- 
ing, " virginibus pucrisque canto ;" and the consequences have been hap- 
py indeed for Jiis oun fame — for the literary taste, and the national music, 
of Scotland ; and, what i:; of far higher importance, the moral and national 
feelings of his countrymen. 

In almost all these productions — certainly in all that deserve to be placed 
in the first rank ol his compositions — Burns made use of his native dialect- 
He did so, too, in opposition to the advice of almost all the lettered cor- 
respondents he had — more especially of Dr. Moore, who, in his oun novels, 
never ventured on more than a icw casual specimens of Scottish colloquy 
— following therem the example of his illustrious predecessor Smollett ; 
and not foreseeing that a triumph over English prejudice, which Smollett 
might have achieved, had he pleased to make the effort, was destined to be 
the prize of Burns's perseverance in obeying the dictates of native taste 
and judgment. Our poet received such suggestions, for the most part, in 
silence — not choosing to argue with others on a matter which concerned 
only his own feelings ; but in writing to Mr. Thomson, lie had no occasion 
either to conceal or disguise his sentiments. '• These English songs," 
says he, " gravel me to death. 1 have not that command of the language 
that I have of my native tongue ;"* and again, " so much for namby- 
pamby. 1 may, after all, try my hand at it in Scots verse. There I am al- 
ways most at home." f — He, besides, would have considered it as a sort of 
national crime to do any thing that must tend to divorce the music 'of his 
native land from her peculiar idiom. The '•' genius loci" was never wor- 
shipped more fervently than by Burns. •' I am such an enthusiast," says 
he, " that in the course of mj^ several peregrinations through Scotland, 1 
made a pilgrimage to the individual spot from which e^ erj' song took itb 
rise, Locfuiber and the Braes of Bailendeit excepted. So far as the locality, 
either from the title of the air or the tenor of the bong, could be ascer- 
tained, 1 have paid my devotions at the particular shrine of every Scottish 
Muse." With such feelings, he was not likely to touch with an irreverent 
hand the old fabric of our national song, or to meditate u lyrical revolution 
for the pleasure of strangers. " There is," says he, | '• a naivete, a pas- 
toral simplicity in a slight intermixture of Scots words and phraseology, 
whidi is more in unison (at least to my taste, and I will add, to every ge- 
nuine Caledonian taste), with the simple pathos or rustic sprightliness ot 
our native music, than any English verses whatever. One hint more let 
me give you : — Whatever 5lr. Tleyel does, let him not alter one iota of 
the original airs ; 1 mean in the song department ; but let our Scottish na- 
tional music preserve its native features, i hey are, 1 own, frequently 
wild and irreducible to the more modern rules ; but on that very eccentri- 
city, perhaps, depends a great part of their efi'ect." § 

Of the delight with which Burns laboured for Mr. Thomson's Collection, 
his letters contain some lively descriptions. " You cannot imagine," says 
he, 7th April 1793, " how much this business has added to my enjoy- 
ments. \Vhat with my early attachment to ballads, your book and ballad- 

• Correspondence with Mr. Thomson, p. 111. f Ibid. p. 00. + Ibid. p. 38. 

S It may amuse the reader to hear, that iii spite of all Burns's success in the use of his native 
diiilect, even an eminently spirited bookseller to whom the manuscript of Waverley was sub- 
mitted, hesitated for some time about publishing it, on account of the Scots dialogue interwo- 
ven in the novel. 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cvii 

making are now as completely my hobbyhorse as ever fortification was 
*Uncle Tob3''s ; so Til e'en canter it away till I come to the limit of my 
race. (God grant I may take the right side of the winning-post), and then, 
cheerfully looking back on tlio honest folks with whom I have been hap- 
py, I shall say or sing, ' Sae merry as we a' hae been,' and raising my last 
looks to the whole human race, the last words of the voice of Coila shall 
be ' Good night, and joy be Avi' you, a'.' " ' 

" Until I am complete master of a tune in my own singing, such as it is, 
I can never," says Burns, " compose for it. My way is this : I consider 
the poetic sentiment correspondent to my idea of the musical expression, 
— then choose my theme, — compose one stanza. When that is composed, 
which is generally the most difficult part of the business, I walk out, sit 
down now and then, — look out lor objecls in nature round me that are in 
unison or harmony with the cogitations of my fancy, and workings of my 
bosom, — humming every now and then the air, with the verses I have fram« 
cd. When I feel my muse beginning to jade, I retire to the solitary tire- 
side of my study, and there commit my efllisions to paper ; swinging at in- 
tervals on the hind legs of my elbow-chair, by way of calling forth my own 
critical strictures, as my pen goes. Seriously, this, at home, is almost in- 
variably my wdy. — What cursed egotism !" f 

In this correspondence with Mr. Thomson, and in Cromek's later publi- 
cation, the reader will iind a Avorld of interesting details about the particu- 
lar circumstances under which these immortal songs were severally writ- 
ten. ^I hey are all, or almost all, in iact, part and parcel of the poet's per- 
sonal history. No man ever made his muse more completely the compa- 
nion of hiii own individual life. A new tiood of light has just been poured 
on the same subject, in Mr. Allan Cunningham's " Collection of Scottish 
Songs ;" unless, therefore, I were to transcribe volumes, and all popular 
volumes too, it is impossible to go into the details of this part of the poet's 
history. The reader nmst be contented with a 'ic'w general memoranda ; 

" Do you think that the sober gin-horse routine of existence could in- 
spire a man with life, and love, and joy, — could fire him with enthusiasm, 
or melt him with pathos equal to the genius of your book? No, no. When- 
ever I want to be more than ordinary ///. sonc/ — to be in some degree equal 
to your divine airs — do you imagine I fast and pray for the celestial ema- 
nation ? Tout ail coKtraire. I have a glorious recipe, the very one that for 
his own use was invented by the Divinity of healing and poetry, when erst 
he piped to the flocks of Admetus, — I put myself on a regimen of admir- 
ing a fine woman."' \. 

" I can assure you I was never more in <'arnest. — Conjugal love is a pas- 
sion which 1 deeply feel, and highly venerate ; but, somehow, it does not 
make such a figure in poesy as that other species of the passion, 

" ^V■llere love is liberty, and nature law." 

Musically speaking, the first is an instrument, of which the gamut is scanty 
and confined, but the tones inexpressibly sweet ; while the last has powers 
equal to all the intellectual modulations of the human soul. Still I am a 
Tery poet in my enthusiasm of the passion. The welfare and happiness of 
tlie beloved object is the first and inviolate sentiment that pervades my 

• Correspondence with Mr. Thomson, p. 57. t Il'i'l- P- US* t Ibid. p. 174. 



cvHI LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

soul ; and — whatever pleasures I might wish for, or whatever raptures they 
might give me — yet, if they interfere with that first principle, it is having 
these pleasures at a dishonest price ; and justice forbids, and generosity 
disdains the purchase." * 

Of all Burns's love songs, the best, in his own opinion, was that which 
begins, 

" Yestreen I had a nint o' wine, 
A place where boay saw na'." 

Mr. Cunningham says, " if the poet thought so, I am sorry for it ;" while 
the Reverend Hamilton Paul fully concurs in the author's own estimate of 
the performance. 

There is in the same collection a love song, which unites the suffrages, 
and ever will do so, of all men. It has furnished Byron with a raottOi 
and Scott has said that that motto is " worth a thousand romances." 

" Had we never loved sae kindly. 
Had we never loved sae blindly, 
Never met — or never parted, 
We had ne'er been broken-hearted." 

There are traditions which connect Burns with the heroines of these be- 
witching songs. 

I envy no one the task of inquiring minutely in how far these traditions 
rest on the foundation of truth. They refer at worst to occasional errors. 
" Many insinuations," says Mr. Gray, " have been made against the poet's 
character as a husband, but without the slightest proof; and I might pass 
from the charge with that neglect M'hich it merits ; but I am happy to say 
that I have in exculpation the direct evidence of Mrs. Burns herself, who, 
among many amiable and respectable qualities, ranks a veneration for the 
memory of her departed husband, whom she never names but in terms of 
the profoundest respect and the deepest regret, to lament his misfortunes, 
or to extol his kindnesses to herself, not as the momentary overflowings of 
the heart in a season of penitence for offences generously forgiven, but an 
habitual tenderness, which ended only with his life. I place this evidence, 
which I am proud to bring forward on her own authority, against a thou- 
sand anonymous calumnies." f 

Among the effusions, not amatory, which our poet contributed to Mr. 
Thomson's Collection, the famous song of Bannockburn hold* the first place. 
We have already seen in how lively a manner Burns's feelings were kindled 
when he visited that glorious field. According to tradition, the tune play- 
ed when Bruce led his troops to the charge, was " Hey tuttie tattie ;" 
and it was humming this old air as he rode by himself through Glenken, a 
wild district in Galloway, during a terrific storm of wind and rain, that the 
poet composed his immortal lyric in its first and noblest form. This is one 
more instance of his delight in the sterner aspects of nature. 

" Come, winter, with thine angry howl, 
And raging bend the naked tree — " 

" There is hardly," says he in one of his letters, " there is scarcely any 
earthly object gives me more — I do not know if I should call it pleasure 

• Gorrespondencc with Mr. Thomson, p. 191. 

i* Letter in Gilbert Burns'» £dition, vol. I. Appendix, p. 437. 



LIFE OF noGEUT CQRMS. ck 

*^but something which exalts me, something which enraptures me — than 
to walk in the sheltered side of a wood in a cloudy winter day, and hear the 
stormy wind howling among the trees, and raving over the plain. It is my 
best season for devotion : my mind is wrapt up in a kind of enthusiasm to 
Him, who, to use the pompous language of the Hebrew Bard, ' walks on 
the wings of the wind.' " — To the last, his best poetry was produced amidst 
scenes of solemn desolation. 



CHAPTER IX. 

CoNTEKTS. — The poet's mortal ftenod approaches — His peculiar temperament — Symptoms of 
premature old age — These not diminished b;/ narrow circumstances, bij cfiarfrin from neglect, 
and by the death of a Daughter — The poet misses piihlic patronage : and even the fair fruits 
of his own genius — the ajipripriatlun iftrhirh is ikhated for the casuists who yielded to him 
merely the shell — His niugniinimily when diiitli is at hand; his interviews, conversations, 
and addresses as a di/in^ man — Dies, 2\st Jidg 1 7!)() — Public funeral, at which many at- 
tend, and amoni/sl the rest the future Pri-niicr of Jinglavd, ivho hail steadilij refused to ac- 
knowledge the poet, living — His fimili/ munificently provided for by the public — Analysis of 
character — His integrity, religious state, and genius — Strictures ujion him and his writings 
by Scott, Campbell, Hyron, and others. 



" I dread thee. Fate, relentless and severe. 
With all a poet's, husliand's, father's fear." 

We are drawinsj near tlie close of this ercat poet's mortal career ; and I 
would fain hope the details of the last chapter may liave jirepared the hu- 
mane reader to contemplate it with sentiments of sorrow, ])Mre and unde- 
based with any considerable intermixture of less genial feelinc^s. 

For some years before Burns was lost to liis country, it is sufficiently 
plain that he had been, on political grounds, an object of suspicion and dis- 
trust to a large portion of the population that had most opportunity of ob- 
serving him. The mean subalterns of party had, it is very easy to suijposc, 
delighted in decrying him on pretexts, good, bad, and indifferent, equally — 
to their superiors ; and hence, who will not willingly believe it? the tem- 
porary and local prevalence of those extravagantly injurious reports, the 
essence of which Dr. Currie, no doubt, thought it his duty, as a biographer, 
to extract and circulate. 

A gentleman of that county, whose name I have already more than once 
had occasion to refer to, liar, often told me, that he was seldom more grie- 
ved, than when riding into Dumfries one fine summer's evening, about this 
time, to attend a county ball, he saw I'urns walking alone, on the shady 
side of the principal street of the town, while the opposite side was gay 
with successive groups of gentlemen and ladies, all drawn together for the 
festivities of the night, not one of whom appeared willing to recognize him. 
The horseman dismounted and joined Burns, who, on his proposing to him 
to cross the street, said, " Nay, nay, my young friend, — that's all over 
now ;" and quoted, after a pause, some verses of Lady Grizzel Baillie's 
pathetic ballad, — 

" His bonnet stood ance fu' fair on his brow, 
iiisauld ane look'd better th:in niony ane's new; 
But now he lets't wear ony way it will hing, 
And casts himsell dowie upon the corn-bing. 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS/ CJci 

«« were we young, as we anee hae been, 
We Bud hae been galloping doun on yon green, 
And linking it ower the lilywhite lea,— 
Atid verena my heart light I wad die." 

It was little in Burns's character to let his feelings on certain subjects, es- 
cape in this fashion. He, immediately after citing these verses, assumed 
the sprightliness of his most pleasing manner ; and taking his young friend 
home with him, entertained him very agreeably until the hour of the ball 
arrived, with a bowl of his usual potation, and Bonnie Jean's singing of 
some verses which he had recently composed. 

The untimely death of one who, had he lived to any thing like the usual 
term of human existence, might have done so much to* increase his fame 
as a poet, and to purify and dignify his character as a man, was, it is too 
probable, hastened by his own intemperances and imprudences : but it 
seems to be extremely improbable, that, even if his manhood had been a 
course of saintlike virtue in all respects, the irritable and nervous bodily 
constitution which he inherited from his father, shaken as it was by the 
toils and miseries of his ill-starred youth, could have sustained, to any 
thing like the psalmist's " allotted span," the exhausting excitements of an 
intensely poetical temperament. Since the first pages of this narrative M'erc 
sent to the press, I have heard from an old acquaintance of the bard, who 
often shared his bed with him at Mossgiel, that even at that early period, 
when intemperance assuredly had had nothing to do with the matter, those 
ominous symptoms of radical disorder hi tlie digestive system, the " palpi- 
tation and suffocation"' of which Gilbert speaks, were so regularly his noc- 
turnal visitants, that it was his custom to have a great tub of cold water 
by his bedside, into which he usually plunged more than once in the course 
of the night, thereby procuring instant, though but shortlived relief On 
a frame thus originally constructed, and thus early tried with most se- 
vere afflictions, external and internal, what must not have been, under any 
subsequent course of circumstances, the effect of that exquisite sensibi- 
lity of mind, but for which the world would never have heard any thing 
cither of the sins, or the sorrows, or the poetry of Burns ! 

" The fates and characters of the rhyming tribe," * (thus writes the 
poet himself), " often employ my thoughts when I am disposed to be me- 
lancholy. There is not, among all the martyrologies that ever were pen- 
ned, so rueful a narrative as the lives of the poets. — In the comparative 
view of wretches, the criterion is not what they are doomed to suf+ier, but 
how they are formed to bear. Take a being of our kind, give him a stronger 
imagination and a more delicate sensibility, which between them will ever 
engender a more ungovernable set of passions, than are the usual lot of 
man ; implant in him an irresistible impulse to some idle vagary, such as, 
arranging wild flowers in fantastical nosegays, tracing the grasshopper to 
his haunt by his chirping song, watching the frisks of the little minnows 
in the sunny pool, or hunting after the intrigues of butterflies — in short, 
send him adrift after some pursuit which shall eternally mislead him from 
the paths of lucre, and yet curse him with a keener relish than any man 
living for the pleasures that lucre can purchase ; lastly, fill up the measure 
of his woes by bestowing on him a spurning sense of his own dignity, and 
you have created a wight nearly as miserable as a poet." 

" Letter to Miss Chalmers in 1793. 



cxil LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

In these few short sentences, as it appears to me, Burns has tfaced his own 
character far better than any one else has done it since. — But with this lot 
what pleasures were not mingled ? — •' To you, Madam," he proceeds, " I 
need not recount the fairy pleasures the muse bestows to counterbalance 
this catalogue of evils. Bewitching poetry is like bewitching woman; she 
has in all ages been accused of misleading mankind from the counsels of 
wisdom and the paths of prudence, involving them in difficulties, baiting 
them with poverty, branding them with infamy, and plunging them in the 
whirling vortex of ruin ; yet, where is the man but must own that all our 
happiness on earth is not worthy the name — that even the holy hermit's 
solitary prospect of pardisiacal bliss is but the glitter of a northern sun, ris- 
ing over a frozen region, compared with the many pleasures, the nameless 
raptures, that we owe to the lovely Queen of the heart of man !" 

It is common to say of those who over-indulge themselves in material 
stimulants, that they live fast ; what wonder that the career of the poet's 
thick-coming fancies should, in the immense majori4;y of cases, be rapid 
too? 

That Burns lived fast, in both senses of the phrase, we have abundant 
evidence from himself; and that the more earthly motion was somewhat ac- 
celerated as it approached the close, we may believe, without finding it at all 
necessary to mingle anger with our sorrow. " Even in his earliest poems," 
as Mr. Wordsworth says, in a beautiful passage of his letter to Mr. Gray, 
" through the veil of assumed habits and pretended qualities, enough of 
the real man appears to show, that he was conscious of sufficient cause to 
dread his own passions, and to bewail his errors ! We have rejected as false 
sometimes in the latter, and of necessity as false in the spirit, many of the 
testimonies that others have borne against him : — but, by his own hand — 
in words the import of which cannot be mistaken — it has been recorded 
that the order of his life but faintly corresponded with the clearness of his 
views. It is probable that he would have proved a still greater poet if, by 
strength of reason, he could have controlled the propensities which his sen- 
sibility engendered ; but he would have been a poet of a different class : 
and certain it is, had that desirable restraint been early established, many 
peculiar beauties which enrich his verses could never have existed, and 
many accessary influences, which contribute greatly to their effect, would 
have been wanting. For instance, the momentous truth of the passage — 

" One point must still be greatly dark, 

The moving whu they do it : 
And just as lamely can ye mark. 

How far perhaps they rue it. 

Then gently scan your brother man, 

StUI gentlier sister woman — 
Though they may gang a kennin' wrang; 

To step aside is human," 

could not possibly have been conveyed with such pathetic force by any 
poet that ever lived, speaking in his own voice ; unless it were felt that, 
like Burns, he was a man who preached from the text of his own errors ; 
and whose wisdom, beautiful as a flower that might have risen from seed 
sown from above, was in fact a scion from the root of personal suffering." 

In how far the " thoughtless follies" of the poet did actually hasten his 
end, it is needless to conjecture. They had their share, unquestionably, 
along with other influences which it would be inhuman to characterise a« 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cxiii 

there follies — such, for example, as that general depression of spirits which 
haunted him from his youth, and, in all likelihood, sat more heavily on 
such a being as Burns than a man of plain common sense might guess, — or 
even a casual expression of discouraging tendency from the persons on 
whose good-will all hopes of substantial advancement in the scale of world- 
ly promotion depended, — or that partial exclusion from the species of so- 
ciety our poet had been accustomed to adorn, and delight, which, from 
however inadequate causes, certainly did occur during some of the latter 

years of his life All such sorrows as these must have acted with twofold 

tyranny upon Burns ; harassing, in the first place, one of the most sensitive 
minds that ever filled a human bosom, and, alas ! by consequence, tempting 
to additional excesses. How he struggled against the tide of his misery, let 
the following letter speak — It was written February 25, 1794, and addres- 
sed to Mr. Alexander Cunningham, an eccentric being, but generous and 
faithful in his friendship to Burns, and, when Burns was no more, to his 
family. — " Canst thou minister," says the poet, " to a mind diseased ? 
Canst thou speak peace and rest to a soul tost on a sea of troubles, without 
one friendly star to guide her course, and dreading that the next surge may 
overwhelm her ? Canst thou give to a frame, tremblingly alive as the tor- 
tures of suspense, the stability and hai'dihood of the rock that braves the 
blast ? If thou canst not do the least of these, why would'st thou disturb 
me in my miseries, with thy inquiries after me ? For these two months I 
have rrot been able to lift a pen. My constitution and frame were ab ori- 
gine, blasted with a deep incurable taint of hypochondria, which poisons my 
existence. Of late a number of domestic vexations, and some pecuniary 
share in the ruin of these ***** times — losses which, though trifling, were 
yet what I could ill bear, have so irritated me, that my feelings at tim^s 
could only be envied by a rep-robate spirit listening to the sentence that 
dooms it to perdition. Are you deep in the language of consolation ? I 
have exhausted in reflection every topic of comfort. A heart at ease would 
have been charmed with my sentiments and reasonings ; but as to myself, I 
was like Judas Iscariot preaching the gospel ; he might melt and mould 
the hearts of those around him, but his own kept its native incorrigibility. 
Still there are two great pillars that bear us up, amid the wreck of misfor- 
tune and misery. The one is composed of the different modifications of a 
certain noble, stubborn something in man, known by the names of courage, 
fortitude, magnanimity. The other is made up of those feelings and sen- 
timents, which, however the sceptic may deny, or the enthusiast disfigure 
them, are yet, I am convinced, original and component parts of the human 
soul; those se?ises of t/ie mind, i£ I may he allowed the expression, which 
connect us with, and link us to those awful obscure realities — an all-power- 
ful and equally beneficent God — and a world to come, beyond death and 
the grave. The first gives the nerve of combat, while a ray of hope beams 
on the field ; — the last pours the balm of comfort into the wounds which 
time can never cure. 

" I do not remember, my dear Cunningham, that you and I ever talked 
on the subject of religion at all. I know some who laugh at it, as the trick 
of the crafty few, to lead the undiscerning many; or at most as an uncer- 
tain obscurity, which mankind can never know any thing of, and with which 
they are fools if they give themselves much to do. Nor would I quarrel 
with a man for his irreligion, any more than I would for his want of a mu- 
iical ear. I would regret that he was shut out from what, to me and to 

17 



tidy LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

others, were such superlative sources of enjoyment. It is in this point ot v'l^vr, 
and for this reason, that I will deeply imbue the mind of every child of 
mine with religion. If my son should happen to be a man of feeling, sen- 
timent, and taste, I shall thus add largely to his enjoyments. Let me flatter 
myself that this sweet little fellow who is just now running about my desk, 
will be a man of a melting, ardent, glowing heart ; and an imagination, de- 
lighted with the painter, and rapt with the poet. Let me figure him, 
wandering out in a sweet evening, to inhale the balmy gales, and enjoy the 
growing luxuriance of the spring ; himself the while in the blooming youth 
of life. He looks abroad on all nature, and through nature up to nature's 
God. His soul, by swift, delighted degrees, is rapt above this sublunary 
sphere, until he can be silent no longer, and bursts out into the glorious 
enthusiasm of Thomson, 

' These, as they change, Alciiighty Father, these 
Are but the varied Gotl — The rolling year 
Is full of Thee ;' 

and so on, in all the spirit and ardour of that charming liymn. — These are 
no ideal pleasures ; they are real delights ; and I ask what of the delights 
among the sons of men are superior, not to say, equal to them? And they 
have this precious, vast addition, that conscious virtue stamps them for her 
own ; and lays hold on them to bring herself into the presence of a witness- 
ing, judging, and approving God." 

They who have been told that Burns was ever a degraded being — who 
have permitted themselves to believe that his only consolations were those 
of " the opiate guilt applies to griei'," will do well to pause over this noble 
letter and judge for themselves. The enemy under which he was destined 
to sink, had already beaten in the outworks ol'his constitution when these 
lines were penned. The reader has already had oc(;asion to observe, that 
Burns had in those closing years of his life to struggle almost continually 
with pecuniary difficulties, tlian which nothing could have been more like- 
ly to pour bitterness intolerable into the cup of his existence. His lively 
imagination exaggerated to itself every real evil ; and this among, and per- 
haps above, all the rest ; at least, in many of his letters we find him alluding 
to the probability of his being arrested for debts, which we now know to 
have been of very trivial amount at the worst, which we also know he him- 
self lived to discharge to the utmost farthing, and in regard to which it is 
impossible to doubt that his personal friends in Dumfries would have at all 
times been ready to prevent the law taking its ultimate course. This last 
consideration, however, M'as one which would have given slender relief to 
Burns. How he shrunk with horror and loathing from the sense of pecu- 
niary obligation, no matter to whom, we have had abundant indications al- 
ready. 

The following extract from one of his letters to Mr. Macmurdo, dated 
December 1793, will speak for itself: — " Sir, it is said that we take the 
greatest liberties with our greatest friends, and I pay myself a very high 
compliment in the manner in which I am going to apply the remark. I 
have owed you money longer than ever I owed it to any man. — Here is 
Ker's account, and here are six guineas ; and now, I don't owe a shilling 
to man, or woman either. But for these damned dirty, dog's-eared little 
pages, (bank-notes), I had done myself the honour to have waited on 
^Vou long ago. Independent of the obligations your hospitality has laid 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. . cxv 

Yfnc under, thii consciousness of your superiority in the rank of- man and 
gentleman of itself was fully as much as I could ever make head against ; 
but to owe you money too, was more than I could face. 

The question naturally arises : Burns was all this while pouring out his 
beautiful songs for the Museum of Johnson and the greater work of Thom- 
son ; how did he happen to derive no pecuniary advantages from this con- 
tinual exertion of his genius in a form of composition so eminently calcu- 
lated for popularity ? Nor, indeed, is it an easy matter to answer this very 
obvious question. The poet himself, in a letter to Mr. Carfrae, dated 
1789, speaks thus : — " The profits of the labours of a man of genius are, I 
hope, as honourable as au}^ profits whatever ; and Mr. Mylne's relations 
are most justly entitled to that honest harvest which fate has denied him- 
self to reap." And yet, so far from looking to Mr. Johnson for any pecu- 
niary remuneration for the very laborious part he took in his work, it ap- 
pears from a passage in Cromek's Reliques, that the poet asked a single 
copy of the Museum to give to a fair friend, by way of a great favour to 
himself — and that that copy and his own were really all he ever received 
at the hands of the publisher. Of the secret history of Johnson and his 
book I know nothing ; but the Correspondence of Burns with Mr. Thomson 
contains curious enough details concerning his connexionwith that gentle- 
man's more important undertaking. At the outset, September 1792, we 
find Mr. Thomson saying, " We will esteem your poetical assistance a 
particular favour, besides paying any reasonable price you shall please to 
demand for it. Profit is quite a secondary consideration with us, and we 
are resolved to save neither pains nor expense on the publication." To 
which Burns replies immediately, " As to any remuneration, you may think 
my songs either above or below price ; for they shall absolutely be the one 
or the other. In the honest enthusiasm with which I embark in your un- 
dertaking, to talk of money, wages, fee, hire, Sec. would be downright pros- 
titution of soul. A proof of each of the songs that I compose or amend I 
s'hall receive as a favour. In the rustic phrase of the season, Gude speed 
the work." The next time we meet with any hint as to money matters in 
the Correspondence is in a letter of Mr. Thomson, 1st July 1793, where 
he says, " 1 cannot express how much I am obliged to you for the exqui- 
site new songs you are sending me ; but thanks, my friend, are a poor re- 
turn for what you have done : as I shall be benefited by the publication, 
you must suffer me to enclose a small mark of my gratitude, and to repeat 
it afterwards when I find it convenient. Do not return it, for, by Heaven, 
if you do, our correspondence is at an end." To which letter (it inclosed 
£.b) Burns thus replies : — " I assure you, my dear Sir, that you truly hurt 
me with your pecuniary parcel. It degrades me in my own eyes. Hom^- 
ever, to return it would savour of affectation ; but as to any more traffic of 
that debtor and creditor kind, I swear by that honour which crowns the 
upright statue of Robert Burns's integrity — on the least motion of it, 1 
will indignantly spurn the by-past transaction, and from that moment com- 
mence entire stranger to you. Burns's character for generosity of senti- 
ment and independence of mind will, I trust, long outlive any of his wants 
which the cold unfeeling ore can supply : at least, I will take care that 
such a character he shall deserve." — In November 1794, we find Mr. Thom- 
son writing to Burns, <' Do not, I beseech you, return any books." — In May 
1793, " You really make me blush when you tell me you have not merited 
the drawing from me ;" (this was a drawing of The Cottars Saturday Night, 



CKVi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

by Allan) ; " I do not think I can ever repay you, or sufficiently esteem 
and respect you, for the liberal and kind manner in which you have enter- 
ed into the spirit of my undertakinp^, which could not have been perfected 
without you. So I beg you would not make a fool of me again by speak- 
ing of obligation." In February 1796, we have Burns acknowledging a 

" handsome elegant present to Mrs. B ," which was a worsted shawl. 

Lastly, on the 12th July of the same year, (that is, little more than a week 
before Burns died), he writes to Mr. Thomson in these terms : — " After 
all my boasted independence, cursed necessity compels me to implore you 
for five pounds. A cruel of a haberdasher, to whom I owe an ac- 
count, taking it into his head that I am dying, has commenced a process, 
and will infallibly put me into jail. Bo, for God's sake, send me that 
sum, and that by return of post. Forgive me this earnestness ; but the hor- 
rors of a jail have put me half distcacted. — I do not ask this gratuitously ; 
for, upon returning health, I hereby promise and engage to furnish you 
with five pounds worth of the neatest song genius you have seen." To 
which Mr. Thomson replies — " Ever since I received your melancholy let- 
ter by Mrs. Hyslop, 1 have been ruminating in what manner 1 could en- 
deavour to alleviate your sufferings. Again and again I thought of a pe- 
cuniary offer ; but the recollection of one of your letters on this subject, 
and the fear of offending your independent spirit, checked my resolution. 
I thank you heartily, therefore, for the frankness of your letter of the 12th, 
and with great pleasure enclose a draft for the very sum I proposed send- 
ing. Would I were Chancellor of the Exchequer but one day for your 

sake ! Pray, my good Sir, is it not possible for you to muster a volume 

of poetry ? Do not shun this method of obtaining the value of 

your labour ; remember Pope published the Iliad by subscription. Think 
of this, my dear Burns, and do not think me intrusive with my advice." 

Such are the details of this matter, as recorded in the correspondence 
of the two individuals concerned. Some time after Burns's death, Mr. 
Thomson was attacked on account of his behaviour to the poet, in a novel 
called Nubilia. In Professor Walker's Memoirs of Burns, which appeared 
in 1816, Mr. Thomson took the opportunity of defending himself thus : — 

" I have been attacked with much bitterness, and accused of not endea- 
vouring to remunerate Burns for the songs which he ;rrotc for my collec- 
tion ; although there is the clearest evidence of the contrary, both in the 
printed correspondence between the poet and me, and in the jjublic testi- 
mony of Dr. Currie. My assailant, too, without knowing any thing of the 
matter, states, that I had enriched myself by the labours of Burns ; and, 
of course, that my want of generosity was inexcusable. Now, the fact is, 
that notwithstanding the united laboui's of all the men of genius who have 
enriched my collection, I am not even yet compensated for the precious 
time consumed by me in poring over musty volumes, and in corresponding 
with every amateur and poet by whose means i expected to make any va- 
luable additions to our national music and song ; — lor ihe exertion and mo- 
ney it cost me to obtain accompaniments from the greatest masters of har- 
mony in Vienna; — and for tlie sums paid to engravers, printers, and others. 
On this subject, the testimony of Mr. Preston in London, a man of un- 
questionable and well-known character, Aviio has printed the music for 
every copy of my work, may be more satisfactory than any thing I can 
say : In August 1809, he wrote me as follows : ' I am concerned at the 
very unwarrantable attack which has been made upon you by the author 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. c%v'd 

o? Nvhilia ; nothing could be more unjust than to say you had enriched 
yourself by Burns's labours ; for the whole concern, though it includes the 
labours of Haydn, has scarcely afforded a compensation for the various ex- 
penses, and for the time employed on the work. When a work obtains 
any celebrity, publishers are generally supposed to derive a profit ten times 
beyond the reality ; the sale is greatly magnified, and the expenses are not 
in the least taken into consideration. It is truly vexatious to be so grossly 
and scandalously abused for conduct, the very reverse of which has been 
manifest through the whole transaction.' — Were I the sordid man that the 
anonymous author- calls me, I had a most inviting opportunity to profit 
much more than I did by the lyrics of our great bard. He had written 
above fifty songs expressly for my work ; they were in my possession un- 
published at his death ; I had the right and the power of retaining them 
till I should be ready to publish them ; but when I was informed that an 
edition of the poet's works was projected for the benefit of his family, I put 
them in immediate possession of the whole of his songs, as well as letters, 
and thus enabled Dr. Currie to complete the four volumes which were sold 
for the family's behoof to IMessrs. Cadell and Davies. And I have the sa- 
tisfaction of knowing, that the most zealous friends of the family, Mr, Cun- 
ninghame, Mr. Syme, and Dr. Currie, and the poet's own brother, consi- 
dered my sacrifice of the prior right of publisliing the songs, as no ungrate- 
ful return for the disinterested and liberal conduct of the poet. Accord- 
ingly, Mr. Gilbert Earns, in a letter to me, which alone might suffice for 
an answer to all the novelist's abuse, thus expresses himself : — ' If ever 
I come to Edinburgh, 1 v.iil certainly call on a person whose handsome con- 
duct to m.y brother's family has secured my esteem, and confirmed me in 
the opinion, that musical taste and talents have a close connexion with the 
harmony of the moral feelings.' Nothing is 'farther from my thoughts 
than to claim any merit for Vvhat I did. I never would have said a word 
on the subject, but for the harsh and groundless accusation which has been 
brought forward, either by ignorance or animosity, and which I have long 
suffered to remain unnoticed, from my great dislike to any public ap- 
pearance^" 

This statement of Mr. Thomson supersedes the necessity of any addi- 
tional remarks, (writes Professor Vv'alkcr). When the public is satisfied; 
when the relations of Burns are grateful ; and, above all, when the delicate 
mind of Mr. Thomson is at peace vvith itself in contemplating his conduct, 
there can be no necessity for a nameless novelist to contradict them. 

So far, Mr. Walker :- — Why Burns, who v.^as of opinion, when he wrote 
his letter to I\Jr. Carfrae, that " no profits are more honourable than those 
of the labours of a man of genius," and whose own notions of independence 
had sustained no shock in the receipt of hundreds of pounds from Creech, 
should have spurned the suggestion of pecuniary recompense from Thom- 
son, it is no easy matter to explain : nor do I profess to understand why Mr. 
Thomson took so little pains- to argue the matter in limine with, the poet, 
and convince him, that the time wiiich he himself considered as fairly en- 
titled to be paid for by a common bookseller, ought of right to be valued 
and acknowledged on similar terms by the editor and proprietor of a book 
containing both songs and music. Tlicy order these things differently 
now : a living lyric poet whom none will place in a higher rank than Burns, 
lias long, it is understood, been in the habit of receiving about as much 
money annually for an annual handful of songs, as was ever naid to our 
bard for the whole body of his writings. 



cxviii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

Of the increasing irritability of our poet's temperament, amidst those trou - 
bles, external and internal, that preceded his last illness, his letters furnish 
proofs, to dwell on which could only inflict unnecessary pain. Let one ex- 
ample suffice. — " Sunday closes a period of our curst revenue business, 
and may probably keep me employed with my pen until noon. Fine em- 
ployment for a ]X)c't's pen ! Here I sit, altogether Novemberish, a d 

melange of frctllilness and melancholy ; not enough of the one to rouse me 
to passion, nor of the other to repose me in torpor ; my soul flouncing and 
fluttering round her tenement, like a wild finch, caught amid the horrors 
of winter, and newly thrust into a cage. Well, I am persuaded that it 
was of me the Hebrew sage prophesied, when he foretold — ' And behold, 
on whatsoever this man doth set his heart, it shall not prosper !' Pray that 
Avisdom and bliss be more frequent visitors of R. B." 

Towards the close of 1795 Burns was, as has been previously mention- 
ed, employed as an acting Supervisor of Excise. This was apparently a 
step to a permanent situation of that higher and more lucrative class ; and 
from thence, there was every reason to believe, the kind patronage of Mr. 
Graham might elevate him yet farther. These hopes, however, were mingl- 
ed and darkened with sorrow. For four months of that year his youngest 
child lingered through an illness of which every week promised to be the 
last ; and she was finally cut oif when the poet, who had watched her with 
anxious tenderness, M-as from home on professional business. This was a 
severe blow, and his own nerves, though as yet he had not taken any seri- 
ous alarm about his ailments, were ill fitted to withstand it. 

" There had need," he writes to Mrs. Dunlop, 15th December, " there 
had much need be many pleasures annexed to the states of husband and 
father, for God knows, they have many peculiar cares. I cannot describe 
to you the anxious, sleepless hours these ties frequently give me. 1 see a 
train of helpless little folks ; me and my exertions all their stay ; and on 
what a brittle thread does the life of man hang ! If I am nipt off at the 
command of fate, even in all the vigour of manhood as 1 am, such things 
happen every day — gracious God ! what would become of my little flock ! 
'Tis here that 1 envy your people of fortune. — A father on his death-bed, 
taking an everlasting leave of his children, has indeed woe enough ; but 
the man of competent fortune leaves his sons and daughters independency 
and friends ; while 1 — but I shall run distracted if I think any longer on 
the subject." 

To the same lady, on the 29th of the month, he, after mentioning his 
supervisorship, and saying that at last his political sins seemed to be for- 
given him — goes on in this ominous tone — " What a transient business is 
life ! Very lately 1 was a boy ; but t'other day a young man ; and 1 already 
begin to feel the rigid fibre and stiffening joints of old age coming fast over 
my frame." We may trace the melancholy sequel in the few following 
extracts. 

" Slst January 1796. — I have lately drunk deep of the cup of afflic- 
tion. The autumn robbed me of my only daughter and darling child, and 
that at a distance too, and so rapidly, as to put it out of my power to pay 
the last duties to her. I had scarcely begun to recover from that shock, 
when I became myself the victim of a most severe rheumatic fever, and 
long the die spun doubtful ; until, after many weeks of a sick-bed, it seems 
to have turned up life, and I am beginning to crawl across my room, and 
once indeed have been before my own door in the street. 



LIFE 01? ROBERT BURNS. cxix 

*' When pleasure fascinates the mental sight, 
Affliction purifies the visual ray, 
RcUgion hails the drear, the untried night. 
That shuts, for ever shuts ! life's doubtful day." 

But a few days after this, Burns was so exceedingly imprudent as to join 
a festive circle at a tavern dinner, where he remained till about three in the 
morning. The weather was severe, and he, being much intoxicated, took 
no precaution in thus exposing his debilitated frame to its influence. It 
has been said, that he fell asleep upon the snow on his way home. It 
is certain, that next morning he was sensible of an icy numbness through 
all his joints — that his rheumatism returned with tenfold force upon him — 
and that from that unhappy hour, his mind brooded ominously on the fatal 
issue. The course of medicine to which he submitted was violent ; con- 
finement, accustomed as he had been to much bodily exercise, preyed 
miserably on all his powers ; he drooped visibly, and all the hopes of his 
friends, that health would return with summer, were destined to disap- 
pointment. 

" Ath June 1796.* — I am in such miserable health as to be utterly inca- 
pable of showing my loyalty in any way. Rackt as I am with rheuma- 
tisms, I meet every face with a greeting like that of Balak and Balaam, — 
* Come curse me Jacob ; and come defy me Israel.' " 

" Ith July. — I fear the voice of the Bard will soon be heard among you 
no more. — For these eight or ten months I have been ailing, sometimes 
bed-fast and sometimes not ; but these last three months I have been tor- 
tured with an excruciating rheumatism which has reduced me to nearly the 
last stage. You actually would not know me if you saw me — pale, emaci- 
ated, and so feeble, as occasionally to need help from my chair. — My spirits 
fled ! fled ! But I can no more on the subject." 

This last letter was addressed to Mr. Cunningham of Edinburgh, from 
the small village of Brow on the Solway Frith, about ten miles from Dum- 
fries, to which the poet removed about the end of June ; " the medical 
folks," as he says, " having told him that his last and only chance was 
bathing, country quarters, and riding." In separating himself by their ad- 
vice from his family for these purposes, he carried with him a heavy bur- 
den of care. *' The duco of the matter," he writes, " is this ; when an ex- 
ciseman is off duty, his salary is reduced. What way, in the name of thrift, 
shall I maintain myself and keep a horse in country quarters on £35 ?" 
He implored his friends in Edinburgh, to make interest with the Board to 
grant him his full salary ; if they do not, I must lay my account with an 
exit truly en poelc — if 1 die not of disease, I must perish with hunger." 

Mrs. Riddell of Glenriddel, a beautiful and very accomplished woman, 
to whom many of Burns's most interesting letters, in the latter years of his 
life, were addressed, happened to be in the neighbourhood of Brow when 
Burns reached his bathing quarters, and exerted herself to make him as 
comfortable as circumstances permitted. Having sent her carriage for his 
conveyance, the poet visited her on the oth July ; and she has, in a letter 
published b}' Dr. Curric,. thus described his appearance and conversation 
on that occasion : — 

" I M'as struck with his appearance on entering the room. The stamp 
of death \fas impressed on his ieaturcs. He seemed already touching the 
brink of eternity. His first salutation was, ' Well, Madam, have you any 

• The birth-day of George III. 



cxx LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

commands for the other world ?' I replied that it seemed a doubtful case 
which of us should be there soonest, and that I hoped he would yet live to 
write my epitaph. (I was then in a poor state of health.) He looked in my 
face with an air of great kindness, and expressed his concern at seeing me 
look so ill, with his accustomed sensibility. At table he ate little or no- 
thing, and he complained of having entirely lost the tone of his stomach. 
We had a long and serious conversation about his present situation, and 
the approaching termination of all his earthly prospects. He spoke of his 
death without any of the ostentation of philosophy, but with firmness as 
well as feeling — as an event likely to happen very soon, and which gave 
him concern chiefly from leaving his four children so young and unprotect- 
ed, and his wife in so interesting a situation — in the hourly expectation of 
lying-in of a fifth. He mentioned, with seeming pride and satisfaction, 
the promising genius of his eldest son, and the flattering marks of appro- 
bation he had received from his teachers, and dwelt particularly on his 
hopes of that boy's future conduct and merit. His anxiety for his family 
seemed to hang heavy upon him, and the more perhaps from the reflection 
that he had not done them all the justice he was so well qualified to do. 
Passing from this subject, he showed great concern about the care of his lite- 
rary fame, and particularly the publication of his posthumous works. He 
said he was well aware that his death would occasion some noise, and that 
every scrap of his writings would be revived against him to the injury of his 
future reputation : that letters and verses written with unguarded and im- 
proper freedom, and which he earnestly wished to have buried in oblivion, 
would be handed about by idle vanity or malevolence, when no dread of his 
resentment would restrain them, or prevent the censures of shrill-tongued 
malice, or the insidious sarcasms of envy, from pouring forth all their ve- 
nom to blast his fame. He lamented that he had written many epigrams 
on persons against whom he entertained no enmity, and whose characters 
he should be sorry to wound ; and many indifferent poetical pieces, which 
he feared would now, with all their imperfections on their head, be thrust 
upon the world. On this account he deeply regretted having deferred to 
put his papers into a state of arrangement, as he was now quite incapable of 
the exertion. — The conversation was kept up with great evenness and ani- 
mation on his side. 1 have seldom seen his mind greater or more collected. 
There was frequently a considerable degree of vivacity in his sallies, and 
they would probably have had a greater share, had not the concern and 
dejection I could not disguise, damped the spirit of pleasantry he seemed 
not unwilling to indulge — We parted about sun-set on the evening of that 
day (the 5th of July 1796) ; the next day I saw him again, and we parted 
to meet no more !" 

I do not know the exact date of the following letter to Mrs Burns : — 
" Brow, Thursday. — My dearest Love, I delayed writing until I could 
tell you what effect sea-bathing was likely to produce. It would be injus- 
tice to deny that it has eased my pains, and 1 think has strengthened me . 
but my appetite is still extremely bad. No flesh nor fish can I swallow . 
porridge and milk are the only things I can taste. I am very happy to 
hear, by Miss Jess Lewars, that you arc all well. My very best and kind- 
est compliments to her and to all the children. I will see you on SundaT. 
Your affectionate husband, 11. B." 

There is a very affecting letter to Gilbert, dated the 7th, in which the 
poet says, «' I am dangerously ill, and not likely to get better. — God keep 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cxxi 

tay wife and children." On the 12th, he ^vrote the letter to Mr. George 
Thomson, above quoted, requesting £5 ; and, on the same day, he penned 
also the following — the last letter that he ever wrote — to his friend Mrs. 
Dunlop. 

" Madam, I have written you so often, without receiving any answer, 
that I would not trouble you again, but for the circumstances in which I 
am. An illness which has long hung about me, in all probability will speed- 
ily send me beyond that bourne whence no traveller returns. Your friend- 
ship, with which for many years you honoured me, was a friendship 
dearest to my soul. Your conversation, and especially your correspondence, 
were at once highly entertaining and instructive. With what pleasure did 
1 use to break up the seal ! The remembrance yet adds one pulse more to 
my poor palpitating heart. Farewell ! ! !" 

I give the following anecdote in the words of Mr. M'Diarmid :* — 
" Rousseau, we all know, when dying, wished to be carried into the open 
air, that he might obtain a parting look of the glorious orb of day. A night 
or two before Burns left Brow, he drank tea with Mrs. Craig, widow of the 
minister of Ruthwell. His altered appearance excited much silent sympa- 
thy ; and the evening being beautiful, and the sun shining brightly through 
the casement. Miss Craig (now Mrs. Henry Duncan), was afraid the light 
might be too much for him, and rose with the view of letting down the win- 
dow blinds. Burns immediately guessed what she meant ; and, regarding 
the young lady with a look of great benignity, said, ' Thank you, my dear, 
for your kind attention ; but, oh, let him shine ; he will not shine long for 
me.' " 

On the 18th, despairing of any benefit from the sea, our poet came back 
to Dumfries. Mr. Allan Cunningham, who saw him arrive " visibly chang- 
ed in his looks, being with difficulty able to stand upright, and reach his 
own door," has given a striking picture, in one of his essays, of the state of 
popular feeling in the town during the short space which intervened between 
his return and his death. — " Dumfries was like a besieged place. It was 
known he was dying, and the anxiety, not of the rich and learned only, but 
of the mechanics and peasants, exceeded all belief. Wherever two or 
three people stood together, their talk was of Burns, and of him alone. 
They spoke of his history — of his person — of his works — of his family — of 
his fame — and of his untimely and approaching fate, with a warmth and an 
enthusiasm which will ever endear Dumfries to my remembrance. All that 
he said or was saying — the opinions of the physicians, (and Maxwell was a 
kind and askUful one), were eagerly caught up and reported from street to 
street, and from house to house." 

" His good humour," Cunningham adds, " was unruffled, and his wit ne- 
ver forsook him. He looked to one of his fellow volunteers with a smile, 
as he stood by the bed-side with his eyes wet, and said, ' John, don't let 
the awkward squad fire over me.' He repressed with a smile the hopes of 
his friends, and told them he had lived long enough. As his life drew near 
a close, the eager yet decorous solicitude of his fellow townsmen increased. 
It is the practice of the young men of Dumfries to meet in the streets 
during the hours of remission from labour, and by these means I had an 
opportunity of witnessing the general solicitude of all ranks and of all ages. 
His differences with them on some important points were forgotten and for- 

• I take the opportunity of once more acknowledging my great obligations to this gentl«« 
man, who j#, I understand, connected hy his marriage with the family oi the poett 

IS 



cxxii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

given ; they thought only of his genius — of the dehght his compositions 
had diffused — and tliey talked of him with the same awe as of some depart- 
ing spirit, whose voice was to gladden them no more." * 

" A tremour now pervaded his frame," says Dr. Currie, on the authority 
of the physician who attended him ; " his tongue was parched; and his mind 
sunk into delirium, when not roused by conversation. On the second and 
third day the fever increased, and his strength diminished." On the fourth, 
July 21st 1796, Robert Burns died. 

" I went to see him laid out for the grave," says Mr. Allan Cunning- 
ham ; " several elder people were with nie. He lay in a plain unadorned 
coffin, Avith a linen sheet drawn over his face ; and on the bed, and around 
the body, herbs and flowers were thickly strewn, according to the usage of 
the country. He was wasted somewhat by long illness ; but death had not 
increased the swarthy hue of his face, which was uncommonly dark and 
deeply marked — his broad and open brow was pale and serene, and around 
it his sable hair lay in masses, slightly touched with grey. The room 
where he lay was plain and neat, and the simplicity of the poet's humble 
dwelling pressed the presence of death more closely on the heart than if 
his bier had been embellished by vanity, and covered with the blazonry of 
high ancestry and rank. We stood and gazed on him in silence for the 
space of several minutes — we went, and others succeeded us — not a whis- 
per was heard. This was several days after his death." 

On the 25th of July, the remains of the poet were removed to the Trades 
Hall, where they lay in state until the next morning. The volunteers of 
Dumfries were determined to inter their illustrious comrade (as indeed he 
had anticipated) with military' honours. The chief persons of the town and 
neighbourhood resolved to make part of the procession ; and not a few tra- 
velled from great distances to witness the solemnity. The streets were 
lined by the Fencible Infantry of Angusshire, and the Cavalry of the Cinque 
Ports, then quarted at Dumfries, whose commander. Lord Hawksbury, (af- 
terwards Earl of Liverpool), although he had always declined a personal 
introduction to the poet, f officiated as one of the chief mourners. *' The 
multitude who accompanied Burns to the grave, went step by step," says 
Cunningham, " with the chief mourners. They might amount to ten or 
twelve thousand. Not a word was heard .... It was an impressive and 
mournful sight to see men of all ranks and persuasions and opinions ming- 
ling as brothers, and stepping side by side down the streets of Dumfries, 
with the remains of him Avho had sung of their loves and joys and domes- 
tic endearments, with a truth and a tenderness which none perhaps have 
since equalled. I could, indeed, have wished the military part of the pro- 
cession away. The scarlet and gold — the banners displayed — the mea- 
sured step, and the military array — with the sounds of martial instruments 
of music, had no share in increasing the solemnity of the burial scene ; and 
had no connexion with the poet. I looked on it then, and I consider it 
now, as an idle ostentation, a piece of superfluous state which might have 
been spared, more especially as his neglected, and traduced, and insulted 
spirit had experienced no kindness in the body from those lofty people who 

are now proud of being numbered as his coevals and countrymen 

I found myself at the brink of the poet's grave, into which he Mas about to 
descend for ever. There was a pause among the mourners, as if loath to 

* In the London Magazine, 1824. Article, " Robert Burns and Lord Byron." 
+ So Mr. Syme has informed Mr. M'Diarmid. 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cxxiii 

part with his remains ; and when he was at last lowered, and the first sho- 
velful of earth sounded on his coffin lid, I looked up and saw tears on many 
cheeks where tears were not usual. The volunteers justified the fears of 
their comrade, by three ragged and straggling volleys. The earth was 
heaped up, the green sod laid over him, and the multitude stood gaz- 
ing on the grave for some minutes' space, and then melted silently away. 
The day was a fine one, the sun was almost without a cloud, and not a 
drop of rain fell from dawn to twilight. I notice this, not from any con- 
currence in the common superstition, that ' happy is the corpse which the 
rain rains on,' but to confute the pious fraud of a religious Magazine, 
which made Heaven express its wrath, at the interment of a profane poet, 
in thunder, in lightning, and in rain." 

During the funeral solemnity, Mrs. Burns was seized with the pains of 
labour, and gave birth to a posthumous son, who quickly followed his fa- 
ther to the grave. Mr. Cunningham describes the appearance of the fa- 
mily, when they at last emerged from their home of sorrow : — " A weep- 
ing widow and four helpless sons ; they came into the streets in their mourn- 
ings, and public sympatliv was awakened afresh. I shall never forget the 
looks of his boys, and the compassion which they excited. The poet's life 
had not been without errors, and such errors, too, as a wife is slow in for- 
giving ; but he was honoured then, and is honoured now, by the unaliena- 
ble affection of his wife, and the world repays her prudence and her love 
by its regard and esteem." 

Immediately after the poet's death, a subscription was opened for the 
benefit of his family ; Mr. INIiiler of Dalswinton, Dr. Maxwell, Mr. Syme, 
Mr. Cunningham, and Mr. M'Murdo, becoming trustees for the application 
of the money. Many names from other parts of Scotland appeared in the 
lists, and not a few from l^ngland, especially London and Liverpool. Seven 
hundred pounds were in this way collected ; an additional sum was for- 
warded from India ; and the profits of Dr. Cm'rie's Life and Edition of 
Burns were also considerable. The result has been, that the sons of the 
poet received an excellent education, and that Mrs. Burns has continued 
to reside, enjoying a decent independence, in the house where the poet 
died, situated in what is now, by the authority of the Magistrates of Dum- 
fries, called Burns' Street. 

" Of the (fi)ur surviving) sons of the poet," says their uncle Gilbert in 
1S20, " Robert, the eldest, is placed as a clerk in the Stamp Office, Lon- 
don, (Mr. Burns still reniainsj in that establishment), Francis Wallace, the 
second, died in 1803 ; William NicoU, the third, went to Madras in 1811 ; 
and James Glencairn, the youngest, to Bengal in 1812, both as cadets in 
the Honourable Company's service." These young gentlemen have all, it 
is believed, conducted themselves through life in a manner highly honour- 
able to themselves, and to the name which they bear. One of them, 
(James), as soon as his circumstances permitted, settled a liberal annuity 
on his estimable mother, which she still survives to enjoy. 

The great poet himself, whose name is enough to ennoble his children's 
children, was, to the eternal disgrace of his country, suffered to live and 
die in penury, and, as far as such a creature could be degraded by any ex- 
ternal circumstances, in degradation. Who can open the page of Burns, 
and remember without a blush, that the author of such verses, the human 
being whose breast glowed with such feelings, was doomed to earn mere 
bread for his children by casting up the stock of publicans' cellars, and rid' 



cxxiv LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

ing over moors and mosses in quest of smuggling stills ? The subscriptioil 
for his poems was, for the time, large and liberal, and perhaps absolves the 
gentry of Scotland as individuals ; but that some strong movement of in- 
dignation did not spread over the whole kingdom, when it was known that 
Robert Burns, after being caressed and flattered by the noblest and most 
learned of his countrymen, was about to be established as a common gauger 
among the wilds of Kithsdale — and that, after he was so established, no 
interference from a higher quarter arrested that unworthy career : — these 
are circumstances which must continue to bear heavily on the memory of 
that generation of Scotsmen, and especially of those who then adminis- 
tered the public patronage of Scotland. 

In defence, or at least in palliation, of this national crime, two false ar- 
guments, the one resting on facts grossly exaggerated, the other having no 
foundation whatever either on knowledge or on wisdom, have been rashly 
set up, and arrogantly as well as ignorantly maintained. To the one, 
namel}', that public patronage would have been wrongfully bestowed on the 
Poet, because the Exciseman was a political partizan, it is hoped the de- 
tails embodied in this narrative have supplied a sufficient answer : had the 
matter been as bad as the boldest critics have ever ventured to insinuate, 
Sir Walter Scott's answer would still have remained — " this partizan was 
Burns." The otlier argument is a still more heartless, as well as absurd 
one ; to wit, that from the moral character and habits of the man, no pa- 
tronage, however liberal, could have influenced and controlled his conduct, 
so as to work lasting and effective improvement, and lengthen his life by 
raising it more nearly to the elevation of his genius. This is indeed a can- 
did and a generous method of judging ! Are imprudence and intemperance, 
then, found to increase usually in proportion as the worldly circumstances 
of men are easy ? Is not the very opposite of this doctrine acknowledged 
by almost all that have ever tried the reverses of Fortune's wheel them- 
selves — by all that have contemplated, from an elevation not too high for 
sympathy, the usual course of manners, when their fellow creatures either 
encounter or live in constant apprehension of 

" The thousand ills that rise where money fails, 
Debts, tlireats, and duns, bills, bailiffs, writs, and jails ?" 

To such mean miseries the latter years of Burns's life were exposed, not 
less than his early youth, and after what natural buoyancy of animal spirits 
he ever possessed, had sunk under the influence of time, which, surely 
bringing experience, fails seldom to bring care also and sorrow, to spirits 
more mercurial than his ; and in what bitterness of heart he submitted to 
his fate, let his own burning words once more tell us. " Take," says he, 
writing to one who never ceased to be his friend — " take these two guineas, 
and place them over against that «««»^» account of yours, which has gag- 
ged my mouth these five or six months ! I can as little write good things 
as apologies to the man I owe money to. O, the supreme curse of mak- 
ing three guineas do the business of five ! Poverty! thou half sister of 
death, thou cousin-german of hell ! Oppressed b}'^ thee, the man of senti- 
ment, whose heart glows with independence, and melts with sensibility, 
inly pines under the neglect, or writhes in bitterness of soul, under the 
contumely of arrogant, unfeeling wealth. Oppressed by thee, the son of 
genius, whose ill-starred ambition plants him at the tables of the fashion- 
able and polite, must see, in suifering silence, his remark neglected, and 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cxXv 

his person despised, while shallow greatness, in his idiot attempts at wit, 
shall meet with countenance and applause. Nor is it only the family of 
worth that have reason to complain of thee ; the children of folly and vice, 
though, in common with thee, the offspring of evil, smart equally under 
thy rod. The man of unfortunate disposition and neglected education, is 
condemned as a fool for his dissipation, despised and shunned as a needy 
wretch, when his follies, as usual, bring him to want ; and when his neces- 
sities drive him to dishonest practices, he is abhorred as a miscreant, and 
perishes by the justice of his country. But far otherwise is the lot of the 
man of family and. fortune. His early follies and extravagance, are spirit 
and fire ; his consequent wants, are the embarrassments of an honest 
fellow ; and when, to remedy the matter, he has gained a legal commis- 
sion to plunder distant provinces, or massacre peaceful nations, he returns, 
perhaps, laden with the spoils of rapine and murder ; lives wicked and 
respected, and dies a ******* and a lord ! — Nay, worst of all, alas for 
helpless woman ! the needy prostitute, who has shivered at the corner of 
the street, waiting to earn the wages of casual prostitution, is left neglect- 
ed and insulted, ridden down by the chariot wheels of the coroneted Rii', 
hurrying on to the guilty assignation ; she, who, without the same neces- 
sities to plead, riots nightly in the same guilty trade. — Well : divines may 
say of it what they please, but execretion is to the mind, what phlebotomy 
is to the body ; the vital sluices of both are wonderfully relieved by their 
respective evacuations." * 

In such evacuations of indignant spleen the proud heart of many an un- 
fortunate genius, besides this, has found or sought relief: and to other 
more dangerous indulgences, the affliction of such sensitive spirits had of- 
ten, ere his time, condescended. The list is a long and a painful one ; and 
it includes some names that can claim but a scanty share in the apology of 
Burns. Addison himself, the elegant, the philosophical, the religious Ad- 
dison, must be numbered with these offenders : — Jonson, Cotton, Prior, 
Parnell, Otway, Savage, all sinned in the same sort, and the transgressions 
of them all have been leniently dealt with, in comparison with those of one 
whose genius was probably greater than any of theirs ; his appetites more 
fervid, his temptations more abundant, his repentance more severe. The 
beautiful genius of Collins sunk under similar contaminations ; and those 
who have from dullness of head, or sourness of heart, joined in the too ge- 
neral clamour against Burns, may learn a lesson of candour, of mercy, and 
of justice, from the language in which one of the best of men, and loftiest 
of moralists, has commented on frailties that hurried a kindred spirit to a 
like untimely grave. 

" In a long continuance of poverty, and long habits of dissipation," says 
Johnson, " it cannot be expected that any character should be exactly uni- 
form. That this man, wise and virtuous as he was, passed alwaj-s unen- 
tangled through the snares of life, it would be prejudice and temerity to 
affirm : but it may be said that he at least preserved the source of action 
unpolluted, that his principles were never shaken, that his distinctions of 
right and wrong were never confounded, and that his faults had nothing of 
malignity or design, but proceeded from some unexpected pressure or ca- 
sual temptation. Such was the fate of Collins, with whom I once de- 
lighted to converse, and whom I yet remember with tenderness." 

• Letter to Mr, Feter Hill, bookseller, Edinburgh. General Correspondence, p. 328, 



cxjcvi Life of Robert bur^s. 

Bums was an honest man : after all his struggles, he owed no mart a * 
shilling when he died. His heart was always warm and his hand open. 
•* His charities," says Mr, Gray, " were great heyond his means ;" and I 
have to thank Mr. Allan Cunningham for the following anecdote, for which 
I am sure every reader will thank him too. Mr. Maxwell of Teraughty, 
an old, austere, sarcastic gentleman, who cared nothing about poetry, used 
to say when the Excise-books of the district were produced at the meet- 
ings of the Justices, — " Bring me Burns's journal : it always does me good 
to see it, for it shows that an honest officer may carry a kind heart about 
with him." 

Of his religious principles, wc are bound to judge by what he has told 
himself in his more serious moments. He sometimes doubted with the 
sorrow, what in the main, and above all, in the end, he believed with the 
fervour of a poet. <• It occasionally haunts me," says he in one of his let- 
ters, — " the dark suspicion, that innnortallly may be only too good news to 
be true;" and here, as on many points besides, how nmch dldhis method of 
thinking, (I fear I must add of acting), resemble that of a noble poet more 
recently lost to us. '•' I am no bigot to infidelity," said Lord Byron, " and 
did not expect that because I doubted the immortality of man, I should be 
charged with denying the existence of a God. It was the comparative in- 
significance of ourselves and our world, when placed in comparison with 
the mighty whole, of which it is an atom, that first led me to imagine that 
our pretensions to immortality might be overrated." I dare not pretend 
to quote the sequel from memory, but the effect was, that Byron, like 
Burns, complained of " the early discipline of Scotch Calvinism," and 
the natural gloom of a melancholy heart, as having between them engen- 
dered " a hypocliondriacal disease" which occasionally visited and depres- 
sed him through life. In the opposite scale, we are, in justice to Burns, 
to place many pages which brcatb.e the ardour, nay the exultation of faith, 
and the humble sincerity of Christian hope ; and, as the poet himself has 
warned us, it well befits us 

" At the balance to be itiute." 

Let us avoid, in the name of Religion herself, the fatal error of those who 
would rashly swell the catalogue of the enemies of religion. " A sally of 
levity," says once more Dr. Johnson, " an indecent jest, an unreasonable 
objection, are sufficient, in the opinion of some men, to efface a name 
from the lists of Christianity, to exclude a soul from everlasting life. Such 
men are so watchful to censure, that they have seldom much care to look 
for favourable interpretations of ambiguities, or to know how soon any 
step of inadvertency has i)een expiated by sorrow and retractation, but let 
fly their fulminatlons without mercy or prudence against slight offences or 
casual temerities, against crimes never committed, or immediately repent- 
ed. The zealot should recollect, that he is labouring, by this frequency 
of excommunication, against his own cause, and voluntarily adding strength 
to the enemies of truth. It nmst always be the condition of a great part 
of mankind, to reject and embrace tenets upon the authority of those whom 
they think wiser than themselves, and therefore the addition of every name 
to infidelity, in some degree invalidates that argument upon which the re- 
ligion of multitudes is necessarily foundexl." * In conclusion, let me adopt 

• Life of Sir Thomas Browne. 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cxxvii 

• the beautiful sentiment of that illustrious moral poet of our own time, 
whose generous defence of Burns will be remembered while the lan- 
guage lasts ; — 

" I;et no mean hope your souls enslave-^ 
Be independent, generous, brave ; 
Your" Poet " such example gave, 

And such revere. 
But be admonished by liis grave. 

And think and fear." * 

It is possible, perhaps for some it may be easy, to imagine a character 
of a much higher cast than that of Burns, developed, too, under circum- 
stances in many respects not unlike those of his hlstoi*y — the character of a 
man of lowly birth, and powerful genius, elevated by that philosophy which 
is alone pure and divine, far above all those annoyances of terrestrial spleen 
and passion, which mixed from the beginning with the workings of his in- 
spiration, and in the end were able to eat deep into the great heart which 
they had long tormented. Such a being would have received, no ques- 
tion, a species of devout reverence, I mean when the grave had closed on 
him, to which the warmest admirers of our poet can advance no preten- 
sions for their unfortunate favourite ; but could such a being have delight- 
ed his species — could he even have instructed them like Burns ? Ought 
we not to be thankful for every new variety of form and circumstance, ih 
and under which the ennobling energies of true and lofty genius are found 
addressing themselves to the common brethren of the race ? Would we 
have none but Miltons and Cowpers in poetry — but Brownes and South- 
eys in prose ? Alas ! if it were so, to how large a portion of the species 
would all the gifts of all the muses remain for ever a fountain shut up and 
a book sealed ! Were the doctrine of intellectual excommunication to be 
thus expounded and enforced, how small the library that would remain to 
kindle the fancy, to draw out and refine the feelings, to enlighten the head 
by expanding the heart of man ! From Aristophanes to Byron, how broad 
the sweep, how woeful the desolation ! 

In the absence of that vehement sympathy with humanity as it is, its 
sorrows and its joys as they are, we might have had a great man, perhaps 
a great poet, but we could have had no Burns. It is very noble to despise 
the accidents of fortune ; but what moral homily concerning these, could 
have equalled that which Burnss poetry, considered alongside of Burns's 
history, and the history of his fame, presents ! It is very noble to be above 
the allurements of pleasure ; but who preaches so effectually against them, 
as he who sets forth in immortal verse his own intense sympathy with those 
that yield, and in verse and in prose, in action and in passion, in life and 
in death, the dangers and the miseries of yielding? 

It requires a graver audacity of hypocrisy than falls to the share of mo.st 
men, to declaim against Burns's sensibility to the tangible cares and toils 
of his earthly condition ; there are more who venture on broad denuncia- 
tions of his sympathy with the joys of sense and passion. To these, the 
great moral poet already quoted speaks in the following noble passage — 
and must he speak in vain ? " Permit me," says he, " to remind you, that it 
is the privilege of poetic genius to catch, under certain restrictions of which 
perhaps at the time of its being exerted it is but dimly conscious, a 

• Wordsworth's address to the sons of Burns, on visiting his grave in 1803. 



cxxviil LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

spirit of pleasure wherever it can be found, — in the walks of nature, and 
in the business of men. — The poet, trusting to primary instincts, luxuriates 
among the feHcities of love and wine, and is enraptured while he describes 
the fairer aspects of war ; nor does he slirink from the company of the pas- 
sion of love thougli immoderate — from convivial pleasure though intempe- 
rate — nor from the presence of war though savage, and recognised as the 
hand-maid of desolation. Frequently and admirably has Burns given way 
to these impulses of nature ; both with reference to himself, and in describ- 
ing the condition of others. Who, but some impenetrable dunce or narrow- 
minded puritant in works of art, ever read without delight the picture 
which he has drawn of the convivial exaltation of the rustic adventurer, 
Tam o' Shanter ? The poet fears not to tell the reader in the outset, that 
his hero was a desperate and sottish drunkard, whose excesses were fre- 
quent as his opportunities. This reprol)ate sits down to his cups, while 
the storm is roaring, and heaven and earth are in confusion ; — the night is 
driven on by song and tumultuous noise — laugliter and jest thicken as the 
beverage improves upon the palate — conjugal fidelity archly bends to the 
service of general benevolence — selfishness is not absent, but wearing the 
mask of social cordiality — and, v/hile tliese various elements of humanity 
are blended into one proud and happy composition of elated spirits, the 
anger of the tempest without doors only heightens and sets off the enjoy- 
ment within. — I pity him who cannot perceive that, in all this, though 
there was no moral purpose, there is a moral effect. 

" Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, 
O'er a' the il/s o' life victorious." 

" What a lesson do these words convey of charitable indulgence for the 
vicious habits of the principal actor in this scene, and of those who resem- 
ble him ! — Men who to the rigidly virtuous are objects almost of loath- 
ing, and whom therefore they cannot serve ! The poet, penetrating the 
unsightly and disgusting surfaces of things, has unveiled with exquisite 
skill the finer ties of imagination and feeling, that often bind these beings 
to practices productive of much unhappiness to themselves, and to those 
whom it is their duty to cherish ; — and, as far as he puts the reader into 
possession of this intelligent sympathy, he qualifies him for exercising a 
salutary influence over the minds of those Mho are thus deplorably de- 
ceived." * 

That some men in every age will comfort themselves in the practice of 
certain vices, by reference to particular passages both in the history and 
in the poetry of Burns, there is all reason to fear ; but surely the general 
influence of both is calculated, and has been found, to produce far different 
effects. The universal popularity which his writings have all along enjoy- 
ed among one of the most virtuous of nations, is of itself, as it would seem, 
a decisive circumstance. Search Scotland over, from the Pentland to the 
Solway, and there is not a cottage-hut so poor and wretched as to be with- 
out its Bible ; and hardly one that, on the same shelf, and next to it, does 
not possess a Burns. Have the people degenerated since their adoption 
of this new manual ? Has their attachment to the Book of Books declined ? 
Are their hearts less firmly bound, than were their fathers', to the old faith 
and the old virtues ? I believe, he that knows the most of the country will 

• Wordsworth's Letter to Gr»y, p. 24, 



LIFE OF R0B£RT BURNS. cmax 

be the readiest to answer all these questions, as every lover of genius and 
vh"tue would desire to hear them answered. 

On one point there can be no controversy ; the poetry of Burns has had 
most powerful influence in reviving and strengthening the national feelings 
of his countrymen. Amidst penury and labour, his youth fed on the old 
minstrelsy and traditional glories of his nation, and his genius divined, 
that what he felt so deeply must belong to a spirit that might lie smothered 
around him, but could not be extinguished. The political circumstances 
of Scotland were, and had been, such as to starve the flame of patriotism ; 
the popular literature had striven, and not in vain, to make itself English ; 
and, above all, a new and a cold system of speculative philosophy had be- 
gun to spread widely among us. A peasant appeared, and set himself to 
check the creeping pestilence of this indifference. Whatever genius has 
since then been devoted to the illustration of the national manners, and 
sustaining thereby of the national feelings of the people, there can be no 
doubt that Burns will ever be remembered as the founder, and, alas ! in 
his own person as the martyr, of this reformation. 

That what is now-a-days called, by solitary eminence, the wealth of the 
nation, had been on the increase ever since our incorporation with a greater 
and wealthier state — nay, that the laws had been improving, and, above all, 
the administration of the laws, it would be mere bigotry to dispute. It 
may also be conceded easily, that the national mind had been rapidly clear- 
ing itself of many injurious prejudices — that the people, as a people, had 
been gradually and surely advancing in knowledge and wisdom, as well as 
in wealth and security. But all this good had not been accomplished with- 
out rude work. If the improvement were valuable, it had been purchased 
dearly. " The spring fire," Allan Cunningham says beautifully somewhere, 
" which destroys the furze, makes an end also of the nests of a thousand 
song-birds ; and he who goes a-trouting with lime leaves little of life in the 
stream." We were getting fast ashamed of many precious and beautiful 
things, only for that they were old and our own. 

It has already been remarked, how even Smollett, who began with a 
national tragedy, and one of the noblest of national lyrics, never dared to 
make use of the dialect of his own country ; and how Moore, another most 
enthusiastic Scotsman, followed in this respect, as in others, the example 
of Smollett, and over and over again counselled Burns to do the like. But 
a still more striking sign of the times is to be found in the style adopted 
by both of these novelists, especially the great master of the art, in their 
representations of the manners and characters of their own countrymen. 
In Humphry Clinker, the last and best of Smollett's tales, there are some 
traits of a'^better kind — but, taking his works as a whole, the impression it 
conveys is certainly a painful, a disgusting one. The Scotsmen of these 
authors, are the Jockeys and Archies of farce — 

Time out of mind the Soutlirons' mirthmakers— • 

the best of them grotesque combinations of simplicity and hypocrisy, pride 
and meanness. When such men, high-spirited Scottish gentlemen, posses- 
sed of learning and talents, and, one of them at least, of splendid genius, 
felt, or fancied, the necessity of making such submissions to the prejudices of 
the dominant nation, and did so without exciting a murmur amOng their own 
countrymen, we may form some notion of the boldness of Burns's experi- 
ment ; and on contrasting the state of things then with what is before us 

19 



CJOOC 'LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

how, it will cost no effort to appreciate the nature and consequences of the 
victory in which our poet led the way, by achievements never in their kind 
to be surpassed. *' Burns," says Mr. Campbell, " has given the elixir vit» 
to his dialect ;"— he gave it to more than his dialect. " He was," says a 
writer, in whose language a brother poet will be recognised — " he was in 
many respects born at a happy time ; happy for a man of genius like him, 
but fatal and hopeless to the more common mind. A whole world of life 
lay before Burns, whose inmost recesses, and darkest nooks, and sunniest 
eminences, he had familiarly trodden from his childhood. All that world 
he felt could be made his own. No conqueror had overrun its fertile pro- 
vinces, and it was for him to be crowned supreme over all the 

' Lyric singers of that high-soul'd land.' 

The crown that he has won can never be removed from his head. Much 
is yet left for other poets, even among that life where his spirit delighted 
to work ; but he has built monuments on all the high places, and they who 
follow can only hope to leave behind them some far humbler memorials." * 
Dr. Currie says, that " i£ Jiction be the soul of poetry, as some assert, 
Burns can have small pretensions to the name of poet." The success of 
Bums, the influence of his verse, would alone be enough to overturn all 
the systems of a thousand definers ; but the Doctor has obviously taken 
/iction in far too limited a sense. There are indeed but few of Burns's 
pieces in which he is found creating beings and circumstances, both alike 
alien from his own person and experience, and then by the power of ima- 
gination, divining and expressing what forms life and passion would assume 
with, and under these. — But there are some ; there is quite enough to sa- 
tisfy every reader of Halloween, the Jolly Beggars, and Tarn o Shantery 
{to say nothing of various particular songs, such as Bruce s Address, Mac- 
pherson's Lament, &c.), that Burns, if he pleased, might have been as large- 
ly and as successfully an inventor in this way, as he is in another walk, 
perhaps not so inferior to this as many people may have accustomed them- 
selves to believe ; in the art, namely, of recombining and new-combining, 
Tarjring, embellishing, and fixing and transmitting the elements of a most 
picturesque experience, and most vivid feelings. 

Lord Byron, in his letter on Pope, treats with high and just contempt 
the laborious trifling which has been expended on distinguishing by air- 
drawn lines and technical slang-words, the elements and materials of poe- 
tical exertion ; and, among other things, expresses his scorn of the attempts 
that have been made to class Burns among minor poets, merely because he 
has put forth few large pieces, and still fewer of what is called the purely 
imaginative character. Fight who will about words and forms, " Burns's 
rank," says he, " is in the first class of his art ;" and, I believe, the world 
at large are now-a-days well prepared to prefer a line from such a pen as 
BjTon's on any such subject as this, to the most luculent dissertation that 
ever perplexed the brains of writer and of reader. Sentio, ergo sum, says 
the metaphysician ; the critic may safely parody the saying, and assert 
that that is poetry of the highest order, which exerts influence of the most 
powerful order on the hearts and minds of mankind. 

Burns has been appreciated duly, and he has had the fortune to be prais- 
ed eloquently, by almost every poet who has come after him. To accu- 

" Blackwood's Magazine, February 1817. 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cxxxt 

mulate all that has been said of him, even by men like himseW, of the first 
order, would fill a volume — and a noble monument, no question, that vo- 
lume would be — the noblest, except what he has left us in his own im- 
mortal verses, which — were some dross removed, and the rest arranged in 
a chronological order — would I believe form, to the intelligent, a more per- 
fect and vivid history of his life than will ever be composed out of all the 
materials in the world besides. 

" The impression of his genius," says Campbell, " is deep and univer- 
sal ; and viewing him merely as a poet, there is scarcely another regret 
connected with his name, than that his productions, with all their merit, 
fall short of the talents which he possessed. That he never attempted any 
great work of fiction, may be partly traced to the cast of his genius, and 
partly to his circumstances, and defective education. His poetical tempe- 
rament was that of fitful transports, rather than steady inspiration. What- 
ever he might have written, was likely to have been fraught with passion. 
There is always enough of interest in life to cherish the feelings of genius ; 
but it requires knowledge to enlarge and enrich the imagination. Of that 
knowledge which unrolls the diversities of human manners, adventures, 
and characters, to a poet's study, he could have no great share ; although 
he stamped the little treasure which he possessed in the mintage of sove- 
reign genius." * 

" Notwithstanding," says Sir Walter Scott, " the spirit of many of his 
lyrics, and the exquisite sweetness and simplicity of others, we cannot but 
deeply regret that so much of his time and talents was frittered away in 
compiling and composing for musical collections. There is suificient evi- 
dence, that even the genius of Burns could not support him in the monoton- 
ous task of writing love verses, on heaving bosoms and sparkling eyes, and 
twisting them into such rhythmical forms as might suit the capricious evo- 
lutions of Scotch reels and strathspeys. Besides, this constant waste of 
his power and fancy in small and insignificant compositions, must neces- 
sarily have had no little effect in deterring him from undertaking any grave 
or important task. Let no one suppose that we undervalue the songs of 
Burns. When his soul was intent on suiting a favourite air to words hu- 
morous or tender, as the subject demanded, no poet of our tongue ever 
displayed higher skill in marrying melody to immortal verse. But the 
writing of a series of songs for large musical collections, degenerated into 
a slavish labour which no talents could support, led to negligence, and, 
above all, diverted the poet from his grand plan of dramatic composition. 
To produce a work of this kind, neither, perhaps, a regular tragedy nor 
comedy, but something partaking of the nature of both, seems to have been 
long the cherished wish of Burns. He had even fixed on the subject, 
which was an adventure in low life, said to have happened to Robert Bruce, 
while wandering in danger and disguise, after being defeated by the English. 
The Scottish dialect would have rendered such a piece totally unfit for the 
stage ; but those who recollect the masculine and lofty tone of martial spirit 
which glows in the poem of Bannockburn, will sigh to think what the cha- 
racter of the gallant Bruce might have proved under the hand of Burns. It 
would undoubtedly have wanted that tinge of chivalrous feeling which the 
manners of the age, no less than the disposition of the monarch, demanded ; 
but this deficiency would have been more tlian supplied by a bard who 
could have drawn from his own perceptions, the unbending energy of » 

• Specimens, vol. vU. 241. 



CJCXxii LIFE OP ROBERT BURNS. 

hero sustaining the desertion of friends, the persecution of cnertiies, and 
the utmost maHce of disastrous fortune. The scene, too, being partly laid 
in humble life, admitted that display of broad humour and exquisite pathos, 
with which he could, interchangeably and at pleasure, adorn his cottage 
views. Nor was the assemblage of familiar sentiments incompatible in 
Burns, with those of the most exalted dignity. In the inimitable tale ot 
Tarn d Shajiter, he has left us sufficient evidence of his abilities to com- 
bine the ludicrous with the awful, and even the horrible. No poet, with 
the exception of Shakspeare, ever possessed the power of exciting the most 
varied and discordant emotions with such rapid transitions. His humour- 
ous description of death in the poem on Dr. Hornbook borders on the ter- 
rific, and the witches' dance in the kirk of Alloa is at once ludicrous and 
horrible. Deeply must we then regret those avocations which diverted a 
fancy so varied and so vigorous, joined with language and expression suited 
to all its changes, from leaving a more substantial monument to his own 
&me, and to the honour of his country." 

The cantata of the Jolly Beggars, which was not printed at all until some 
time after the poet's death, and has not been included in the editions of his 
works until within these few years, cannot be considered as it deserves, with- 
out strongly heightening our regret that Burns never lived to execute his 
meditated drama. That extraordinary sketch, coupled with his later ly- 
rics in a higher vein, is enough to show that in him we had a master capa- 
ble of placing the musical drama on a level with the loftiest of our classi- 
cal forms. Beggars Bush, and Beggars Opera, sink into tameness in the 
comparison ; and indeed, without profanity to the name of Shakspeare, it 
may be said, that out of such materials, even his genius could hardly have 
constructed a piece in which imagination could have more splendidly pre- 
dominated over the outward shows of things — in which the sympathy- 
awakening power of poetry could have been displayed more triumphantly 
under circumstances of the greatest difficulty. — That remarkable perform- 
ance, by the way, was an early production of the Mauchline period. I 
know nothing but the Tam o' Shunter tliat is calculated to convey so high 
an impression of what Burns might have done. 

As to Burns's want of education and knowledge, Mr. Campbell may not 
have considered, but he must admit, that whatever Burns's opportunities 
had been at the time when he produced his first poems, such a man as he 
was not likely to be a hard reader, (which he certainly was), and a constant 
observer of men and manners, in a much wider circle of society than al- 
most any other great poet has ever moved in, from three-and-twenty to 
eight-and-thirty, M'ithout having thoroughly removed any pretext for au- 
guring unfavourably on that score, of what he niight have been expected 
lo produce in the more elaborate departments of his art, had his life been 
spared to the usual limits of humanity. In another way, however, I can- 
not help suspecting that Burns's enlarged knowledge, both of men and books, 
produced an unfavourable effect, rather than otherwise, on the exertions, 
such as they were, of his later years. His generous spirit was open to the 
impression of every kind of excellence ; his lively imagination, bending its 
own vigour to whatever it touched, made him admire even what other peo- 
ple try to read in vain ; and after travelling, as he did, over the general 
Burface of our literature, he appears to have been somewhat startled at the 
consideration of what he himself had, in comparative ignorance, adventur* 
^ and to hav^ be«n more iBtiiaidated than encouraged b/ the retrospect, 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cxxxiil 

In most of the new departments in which he made 6ome trial of his strength, 
(such, for example, as the moral epistle in Pope's vein, the ?ieroic satire, 
&c.), he appears to have soon lost heart, and paused. There is indeed one 
magnificent exception in Tarn o Shanter — a piece which no one can under- 
stand without believing, that had Burns pursued that walk, and poured out 
his stores of traditionary lore, embellished with his extraordinary powers 
of description of all kinds, we might have had from his hand a series of na- 
tional tales, uniting the quaint simplicity, sly humour, and irresistible pathos 
of another Chaucer, with the strong and graceful versification, and mascu- 
line M'it and sense of another Dryden. 

This was a sort of feeling that must have in time subsided But let us 

not waste words in regretting what might have been, where so much is 

Burns, short and painful as were his years, has left behind him a volume 
in which there is inspiration for every fancy, and music for every mood ; 
which lives, and will live in strength and vigour — " to soothe," as a gene- 
rous lover of genius has said — " the sorrows of how many a lover, to in- 
flame the patriotism of how many a soldier, to fan the fires of how many a 
genius, to disperse the gloom of solitude, appease the agonies of pain, en- 
courage virtue, and show vice its ugliness ;" * — a volume, in which, centuries 
hence, as now, wherever a Scotsman may wander, he will find the dearest 
consolation of his exile — Already has 

Glory without end 



Scattered the clouds away ; and on that name attend 
The tears and praises of all time." -j- 



The mortal remains of the poet rest in Dumfries churchyard. For nine- 
teen years they were covered by the plain and humble tombstone placed 
over them by his widow, bearing the inscription simply of his name. But 
a splendid mausoleum having been erected by public subscription on the 
most elevated site which the churchyard presented, the remains were so- 
lemnly transferred thither on the 8th June 1815; the original tombstone 
having been sunk under the bottom of the mausoleum. This shrine of the 
poet is annually visited by many pilgrims. The inscription it bears is given 
below. Another splendid monumental edifice has also been erected to 
his memory on a commanding situation at the foot of the Carrick hills in 
Ayrshire, in the immediate vicinity of the old cottage where the poet was 
born ; and such is the unceasing, nay daily increasing veneration of his 
admiring countrymen, that a third one, of singular beauty of design, is 
now in progress, upon a striking projection of that most picturesque emi- 
nence — the Calton Hill of Edinburgh The cut annexed to p. cxxxvi. 

exhibits a view, necessarily but an imperfect one, of the monument last 
mentioned. 



• See the Censura Litcraria of Sir Egerton Brydges, voL iL p. hb. 
•^ Loid Byaoa's Child Harold, Canto iv. 36. 



cxxxiv LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



INSCRIPTION UPON THE POET'S MONUMENT IN 
DUMFRIES CHURCHYARD. 



IN AETEKNUM HONOBEM 

ROBERTI BURNS 

POETABUM CALEDONIAE SUI AEVI LONGE PRINCIPIS 

CUJUS CAHMINA EXIMIA PATRIO SEBMONE SCBIFTA 

ANIMl MAGIS ARDENTIS VIQUe INGENII 

QUAM ARTE VEL CULTU CONSPICUA 

FACETIIS JUCUNDITATE LEPORE AFFLUENTIA 

OMNIBUS LITTEBARUM CULTORIBUS SATIS NOTA 

CrVES SUI NECNON PLEBIQUE OMNES 

MUSABUM AMANTISSIJU MEMOBIAMQUK VIRI 

ABTE POeXlCA TAM PBAECLABI FOVENTKS 

HOC MAUSOLEUM 

gUFEB BELIQUIAS POETAE MOBTALES 

EXTRUENDUM CUBAVEBE 

PBIMUM HUJUS AEDIFICn LAPIDEM 

GULIELMUS MILLER ABMIGEB 

REIPOBLICAE AJEICHITECTONICAE APUD 8C0T0S 

IN REGIONK AUSTBALI CUBIO MAXIMUS PBOVINCIALIS 

GEORGIO TEBTIO BEGNANTE 

GEOBGIO WALLIARUM PBINCIPK 

BUMMAM IMPERII PBO PATBE TENENTE 

JOSEPHO GASS ABMIGERO DUMFRISIAE PBAEFECTO 

THOMA F. HUNT LONDINENSI ABCHITECTO 

P08UIT 

KONIS JUNHS ANNO LUCIS VMDCCCXV 

SALUTIS HUMANAE MJXJCCXV. 



ON THE DEATH OF BURNS. 



CXXXV 



The many poetical effusions the Peot's death gave rise to, presents a 
wide field for selection. — The elegiac verses by Mr. Roscoe of Liverpocd 
have been preferred, as the most fitting sequel to his eventful life. 



ON 



THE DEATH OF BURNS. 



Rear high thy bleak majestic hills, 

Thy shelter'd valleys proudly spread, 
And, Scotia, pour thy thousand rills, 

And wave thy heaths with blossoms red ; 
But, ah ! what poet now shall tread 

Thy airy heights, thy woodland reign, 
Since he, the sweetest bard, is dead. 

That ever breath'd the soothing strain ! 

As green thy towering pines may grow. 

As clear thy streams may speed along. 
As bright thy summer suns may glow. 

As gaUy charm thy feathery throng ; 
But now, unheeded is the song. 

And dull and lifeless all around. 
For his wild harp lies all unstrung. 

And cold the hand that waked its sound. 

What though thy vigorous offspring rise, 

In arts, in arms, thy sons excel ; 
Tho' beauty in thy daughters' eyes. 

And health in every feature dwell ? 
Yet who shall now their praises tell, 

In strains impassion'd, fond, and free, 
Since he no more the song shall swell 

To love, and liberty, and thee ? 

"With step-dame eye and frown severe 

His hapless youth why didst thou view ? 
For aU thy joys to him were dear. 

And all his vows to thee were due ; 
Nor greater bliss his bosom knew. 

In opening youth's delightful prime. 
Than when thy favouring ear he drew 

To listen to his chaunted rhyme. 

Thy lonely wastes and frowning skies 

'I'o him were all with rapture fraught ; 
He heard with joy the tempest rise 

That waked him to sublimer thought ; 
And oft thy winding dells he sought, [fume. 

Where wild-flowers pour'd their rathe per- 
And with sincere devotion brought 

To thee the summers earliest bloom. 



But ah ! no fond maternal smile 

His unprotected youth enjoy'd, 
His limbs inur'd to early toil. 

His days with early hardships tried { 
And more to mark the gloomy void, 

And bid him feel his misery. 
Before his infant eyes would glide 

Day-dreams of immortality. 

Yet, not by cold neglect depress'd, 

With sinewy arm he turn'd the soil, 
Sunk with the evening sun to rest. 

And met at morn his earliest smile. 
Waked by his rustic pipe, meanwhile 

The powers of fancy came along. 
And sooth'd his lengthened hours of toil, 

'V^''ith native wit and sprightly song. 

— Ah ! days of bliss, too swiftly fled, 

When vigorous health from labour springs, 
And bland contentment smooths the bed, 

And sleep his ready opiate brings; 
And hovering round on airy wings 

Float the light forms of young desire. 
That of unutterable things 

The soft and shadowy hope inspire. 

Now spells of mightier power prepare, 

Bid brighter phantoms round him dance ; 
Let Flattery spread her viewless snare. 

And Fame attract his vagrant glance; 
Let sprightly Pleasure too advance, 

Unveil'd her eyes, unclasp'd her zone. 
Till, lost in love's delirious trance, 

He scorns the joys his youth has known. 

Let Friendship pour her brightest blaze, 

Expanding all the bloom of soul; 
And Mirth concentre all her rays. 

And point them from the sparkling bowl ; 
And let the careless moments roU 

In social pleasure unconfined. 
And confidence that spurns control 

Unlock the inmost springs of mind : 



cxxxvl 



ON THE DEATH OF BURNS.' 



And lead his steps those bowers among, 

Where elegance with splendour vies, 
Or Science bids her favour'd throng 

To more refined sensations rise : 
Beyond the peasant's humbler joys, 

And freed from each laborious strife, 
There let him learn tlie bliss to prize 

That waits the sons of polish'd life. 

Then whilst his throbbing veins beat high 

With every impulse of delight. 
Dash from his lips the cup of joy, 

And shroud the scene in shades of night ; 
And let Despair, with wizard light. 

Disclose tlie yawning gulf below, 
And pour incessant on his sight 

Her spectred Dls and shapes of woe : 

And show beneath a cheerless shed. 
With sorrowing heart and streaming eyes, 

In silent grief where droops her head, 
The partner of his early joys ; 



And let his infants' tender criei 
His fond parental succour claim, 

And bid him hear in agonies 
A husband's and a father's name. 

'Tis done, the powerful charm succeeds • 

His high reluctant spirit bends ; 
In bitterness of soul he bleeds. 

Nor longer with his fate contends. 
An idiot laugh the welkin rends 

As genius thus degraded lies ; 
Till pitying Heaven the veil extends 

That shrouds the Poet's ardent eyes. 

— Rear high thy bleak majestic hills. 

Thy shelter'd valleys proudly spread, 
And, Scotia, pour tliy thousand rills, 

And wave thy heaths with blossoms red ; 
But never more shall poet tread 

Thy airy heights, thy woodland reign, 
Since he, the sweetest bard, is dead. 

That ever breathed the soothing strain. 




CHARACTER 



or 

BURNS AND HIS WRITINGS, 

MRS. RroDELL OF GLENRIDDELL.* 



Thk attention of the public seems to be much occupied at present with 
the loss it has recently sustained in the death of the Caledonian poet, Ro- 
bert Burns ; a loss calculated to be severely felt throughout the literary 
world, as well as lamented in the narrower sphere of private friendship. It 
was not therefore probable that such an event should be long unattended 
with the accustomed profusion of posthumous anecdotes and memoirs which 
are usually circulated immediately after the death of every rare and cele- 
brated personage : I had however conceived no intention of appropriating 
to myself the privilege of criticising Burns's writings and character, or of 
anticipating on the province of a biographer. 

Conscious indeed of my own inability to do justice to such a subject, I 
should have , continued wholly silent, had misrepi'esentation and calumny 
been less industrious ; but a regard to truth, no less than affection for the 
memory of a friend, must now justify my offering to the public a few at 
least of those observations which an intimate acquaintance with Burns, and 
the frequent opportunities I have had of observing equally his happy qua- 
lities and his failings for several years past, have enabled me to commu- 
nicate. 

It will actually be an injustice done to Burns's character, not only by 
future generations and foreign countries, but even by his native Scotland, 
and perhaps a number of his contemporaries, that he is generally talked of, 
and considered, with reference to his poetical talents only : for the fact is, 
even allowing his great and original genius its due tribute of admiration, 
that poetry (I appeal to all who have had the advantage of being person- 
ally acquainted with him) w^s actually not \ns forte. Many others, per- 
haps, may have ascended to prouder heights in the region of Parnassus, 
but none certainly ever outshone Burns in the charms — the sorcery, I 

• MTi.'Rlddell knew the poet well ; she had every opportunity for obscr\'ation of what he said and ilid, a* 
well as of what waj said of him and done towards lum. Her beautifully written Rlo^, — friendly yet candid, 
^was well received and generally circulated at the time. It has bcim inserted by Dr. Currle in his several 
•dilioni, M interesting fronn its elegance, and authoritative from the writer's accurate iDfoniuUba; we hari 
tbOtcfOK most readily gWen it a place hetc 

20 



cxxxviii CHARACTER OF BURNS AND HIS WRITINGS. 

would almost call it, of fascinating conversation, the spontaneous elo- 
quence of social argument, or the unstudied poignancy of brilliant repar- 
tee ; nor was any man, I believe, ever gifted with a larger portion of the 
* vivida vis animi.' His personal endowments were perfectly correspon- 
dent to the qualifications of his mind : his form was manly ; his action, 
energy itself; devoid in great measure perhaps of those graces, of that 
polish, acquired only m the refinement of societies where in early life he 
could have no opportunities of mixing ; but where, such was the irresist- 
ible power of attraction that encircled him, though his appearance and 
manners were always peculiar, he never failed to delight and to excel. 
His figure seemed to bear testimony to his earlier destination and employ- 
ments. It seemed rather moulded by nature for the rough exercises of 
Agriculture, than the gentler cultivation of the Belles Lettres. His fea- 
tures were stamped with the hardy character of independence, and the 
firmness of conscious, though not arrogant, pre-eminence ; the animated 
expressions of countenance were almost peculiar to himself; the rapid 
lightnings of his eye were always the harbingers of some flash of genius, 
whether they darted the fiery glances of insulted and indignant superiori- 
ty, or beamed with the impassioned sentiment of fervent and impetuous 
affections. His voice alone could improve upon the magic of his eye : so- 
norous, replete with the finest modulations, it alternately captivated the 
ear with the melody of poetic numbers, the perspicuity of nervous reason- 
ing, or the ardent sallies of enthusiastic patriotism. The keenness of sa- 
tire was, I am almost at a loss whether to say, his forte or his foible ; for 
though nature had endowed liim with a portion of the most pointed excellence 
in that dangerous talent, he suffered it too often to be the vehicle of personal, 
and sometimes unfounded, animosities. It was not always that sportiveness 
of humour, that " unwary pleasantry," which Sterne has depicted with touches 
so conciliatory ; but the darts of ridicule were frequently directed as the ca- 
price of the instant suggested, or as the altercations of parties and of persons 
happened to kindle the restlessness of his spirit into interest or aversion. 
This, however, was not invariably the case ; his wit, (which is no unusual mat- 
ter indeed), had always the start of his judgment, and would lead him into 
the indulgence of raillery uniformly acute, but often unaccompanied with 
the least desire to wound. The suppression of an arch and full-pointed bon 
mot, from a dread of offending its object, the sage of Zurich very properly 
classes as a virtue only to be sought for in the Calendar of Saints ; if so, 
Burns must not be too severely dealt with for being rather deficient in it. 
He paid for his mischievous wit as dearly as any one could do. " 'Twas no 
extravagant arithmetic," to say of him, as was said of Yorick, that " for 
every ten jokes he got a hundred enemies ;" but much allowance will be 
made by a candid mind for the splenetic warmth of a spirit whom " dis- 
tress had spited with the world," and which, unbounded in its intellectual 
sallies and pursuits, continually experienced the curbs imposed by the way- 
wardness of his fortune. The vivacity of his wishes and temper was indeed 
checked by almost habitual disappointments, which sat heavy on a heart 
that acknowledged the ruling passion of independence, without having ever 
been placed beyond the grasp of penury. His soul was never languid or 
inactive, and his genius was extinguished only with the last spark of re- 
treating life. His passions rendered him, according as they disclosed them- 
selves in affection or antipathy, an object of enthusiastic attachment, or of 
decided enmity : for he possessed none of that negative insipidity of cha- 



CHARACTER OF BURNS AND HIS WRITINGS. cxxxix 

racter, whose love might be regarded with indifference, or whose resent- 
ment could be considered with contempt. In this, it should seem, the 
temper of his associates took the tincture from his own ; for he acknowledg- 
ed in the universe but two classes of objects, those of adoration the most 
fervent, or of aversion the most uncontrolable ; and it has been frequently 
a reproach to him, that, unsusceptible of indifference, often hating, where 
he ought only to have despised, he alternately opened his heart and poured 
forth the treasures of his understanding to such as were incapable of ap- 
preciating the homage ; and elevated to the privileges of an adversary, some 
who were unqualified in all respects for the honour of a contest so distin- 
guished. 

It is said that the celebrated Dr. Johnson professed to " love a good 
hater" — a temperament that would have singularly adapted him to cherish 
a prepossession in favour of our bard, who perhaps fell but little short even 
of the surly Doctor in this qualification, as long as the disposition to ill-will 
continued ; but the warmth of his passions was fortunately corrected by 
their versatilit3^ He was seldom, indeed never, implacable in his resent- 
ments, and sometimes, it has been alleged, not inviolably faithful in his 
engagements of friendship. Much indeed has been said about his incon- 
stancy and caprice ; but I am inclined to believe, that they originated less 
in a levity of sentiment, than from an extreme impetuosity of feeling, 
which rendered him prompt to take umbrage ; and his sensations of pique, 
where he fancied he had discovered the traces of neglect, scorn, or unkind- 
ness, took their measure of asperity from the overflowings of the opposite 
sentiment which preceded them, and which seldom failed to regain its as- 
cendancy in his bosom on the return of calmer reflection. He was candid 
and manly in the avowal of his errors, and his avoioal was a reparation. 
His native 7?erfe never forsaking him for a moment, the value of a frank 
acknowledgment was enhanced tenfold towards a generous mind, from its 
never being attended with servility. His mind, organized only for the 
stronger and more acute operations of the passions, was impracticable to 
the efforts of superciliousness that would have depressed it into humility, 
and equally superior to the encroachments of venal suggestions that might 
have led him into the mazes of hypocrisy. 

It has been observed, that he was far from averse to the incense ot 
flattery, and could receive it tempered with less delicacy than might 
have been expected, as he seldom transgressed extravagantly in that 
way himself; where he paid a compliment, it might indeed claim the 
power of intoxication, as approbation from him was always an honest tri- 
bute from the warmth and sincerity of his heart. It has been sometimes 
represented, by those who it should seem had a view to depreciate, though 
they could not hope wholly to obscure that native brilliancy, which the 
powers of this extraordinary man had invariably bestowed on every thing 
that came from his lips or pen, that the history of the Ayrshire ploughboy 
was an ingenious fiction, fabricated for the purposes of obtaining the inte- 
rests of the great, and enhancing the merits of what in reality required no 
foil. The Cotter's Saturday Night, Tam o' Shanter, and the Mountain 
Daisy, besides a number of later productions, where the maturity of his 
genius will be readily traced, and which will be given to the public as 
soon as his friends have collected and arranged them, speak sufficiently for 
themselves ; and had they fallen from a hand more dignified in the ranks 
of society thmi that of » peasant, they had perhaps bestowed as unusual a 



Cxl CHARACTER OF BURNS AND HIS WRITINGS. 

grace there, as even in the humbler shade of rustic inspiration from whence 
they really sprung. 

To the obscure scene of Burns's education, and to the laborious, though 
honourable station of rural industry, in which his parentage enrolled him, 
almost every inhabitant of the south of Scotland can give testimony, Hig 
only surviving brother, Gilbert Burns, now guides the ploughshare of his 
forefathers in Ayrshire, at a farm near Mauchline ; * and our poet's eldest 
son (a lad of nine years of age, whose early dispositions already prove him 
to be in some measure the inheritor of his father's talents as well as indi- 
gence) has been destined by his family to the humble employments of the 
loom, f 

That Burns had received no classical education, and was acquainted 
with the Greek and Roman authors only through the medium of transla- 
tions, is a fact of which all who were in the habits of conversing with him, 
might readily be convinced. I have indeed seldom observed him to be at 
a loss in conversation, unless where the dead languages and their writers 
have been the subjects of discussion. When I have pressed him to tell me 
why he never applied himself to acquire the Latin, in particular, a lan- 
guage which his happy memory would have so soon enabled him to be mas- 
ter of, he used only to reply with a smile, that he had already learnt all the 
Latin he desired to know, and that was Omnia vincit amor ; a sentence 
that, from his writings and most favourite pursuits, it should undoubtedly 
seem that he was most thoroughly versed in ; but I really believe his clas- 
sic erudition extended little, if any, farther. 

The penchant Burns had uniformly acknowledged for the festive plea- 
sures of the table, and towards the fairer and softer objects of nature's 
creation, has been the rallying point from whence the attacks of his cen- 
sors have been uniformly directed ; and to these, it must be confessed, he 
shewed himself no stoic. His poetical pieces blend with alternate happi- 
ness of description, the frolic spirit of the flowing bowl, or melt the heart 
to the tender and impassioned sentiments in which beauty always taught 
him to pour forth his own. But who would wish to reprove the feelings he 
lias consecrated with such lively touches of nature ? And where is the 
rugged moralist who will persuade us so far to " chill the genial current 
of the soul," as to regret that Ovid ever celebrated his Corinna, or that 
Anacreon sung beneath his vine ? 

I will not however undertake to be the apologist of the irregularities 
even of a man of genius, though I believe it is as certain that genius never 
was free from irregularities, as that their absolution may in a great mea- 
sure be justly claimed, since it is perfectly evident that the world had con- 
tinued very stationary in its intellectual acquirements, had it never given 
birth to any but men of plain sense. Evenness of conduct, and a due re- 
gard to the decorums of the world, have been so rarely seen to move hand 
in hand with genius, that some have gone as far as to say, though there I 
cannot wholly acquiesce, that they are even incompatible ; besides, the 
frailties that cast their shade over the splendour of superior merit, are 
more conspicuously glaring than where they are the attendants of mere medi- 

" The fate of this worthy man is noticed at p. 302, wliere will be found a deserved tribute 
to his memory, (for he, too, alas I is gone), from the pen of a friend. 

+ The plan of breeding the poet's eldest son a manufacturer was given up. He has been 
placed in one of the public offices (the Stamp-Office) in London, where he continues to fill 
respectably a respectable situation. His striking likeness to the poet bas been often ie« 
Duuked* 



CHARACTER OF BURNS AND HIS WRITINGS. cxli 

Ocrity. It is only on the gem we are disturbed to see the dust ; the pebble 
may be soiled, and we never regard it. The eccentric intuitions of genius 
too often yield the soul to the wild effervescence of desires, always un- 
bounded, and sometimes equally dangerous to the repose of others as fatal 
to its own. No wonder then if virtue herself be sometimes lost in the blaze 
of kindling animation, or that the calm monitions of reason are not inva- 
riably found sufficient to fetter an imaginarior which scorns the narrew 
limits and restrictions that would chain it to the level of ordinary minds. 
The child of nature, the child of sensibility, unschooled in the rigid pre- 
cepts of philosophy, too often unable to control the passions which proved 
a source of frequent errors and misfortunes to him, Bur^.'^ made his own 
artless apology in language more impressive than all the argumentatory 
vindications in the world could do, in one of his own poems, where he de- 
lineates the gradual expansion of his mind to the lessons of the " tutelary 
muse," who concludes an address to her pupil, almost unique for simplicity 
and beautiful poetry, with these lines : 

" I saw thy pulse's niadd'ning play 
Wild send thee pleasure's devious way ; 
Misled by Fancy's meteor ray, 

By passion driven ; 
But yet the light that led astray. 

Was light from heaven /" * 

I have already transgressed beyond the bound's I haa proposed to my- 
self, on first committing this sketch to paper, which comprehends what at 
least I have been led to deem the leading features of Burns's mind and cha- 
racter : a literary critique I do not aim at ; mine is wholly fulfilled, if in 
these pages I have been able to delineate any of those strong traits that 
distinguished him, — of those talents which raised him from the plough, 
where he passed the bleak morning of his life, weaving his rude wreaths 
of poesy with the wild field-flowers that sprang ai-ound his cottage, to that 
enviable eminence of literary fame, where Scotland will long cherish his 
memory with delight and gratitude ; and proudly remember, that beneath 
her cold sky a genius was ripened, without care or culture, that would have 
done honour to climes more favourable to those luxuriances — that warmth 
of colouring and fancy in which he so eminently excelled. 

From several paragraphs I have noticed in the public prints, ever since 
the idea of sending this sketch to some one of them was formed, I find pri- 
vate animosities have not yet subsided, and that envy has not yet exhaust- 
ed all her shafts. I still trust, however, that honest fame will be perma- 
nently affixed to Burns's character, which I think it will be found he has 
merited by the candid and impartial among his countrymen. And where 
a recollection of the imprudences that sullied his brighter qualifications in- 
terpose, let the imperfection of all human excellence be remembered at 
the same time, leaving those inconsistencies, which alternately exalted his 
nature into the seraph, and sunk it again into the man, to the tribunal 
which alone can investigate the labyrinths of the human heart — 

" Where they alike in trembling hope repose, 
— The bosom of his father and his God." 

Gray's Eleqy. 
Armandale, August 7, 1796. 

" Vide the Vision— Duan 2d, 



PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. 



The following trifles are not the production of the poet, who, with all 
the advantages of learned art, and, perhaps, amid the elegancies and idle- 
ness of upper life, looks down for a rural theme, with an eye to Theocritus 
or Virgil, To the author of this, these and other celebrated names their 
countrymen are, at least in their original language, a fountain shut up, and 
a book sealed. Unacquainted with the necessary requisites for commencing 
poet by rule, he sings the sentiments and manners he felt and saw in him- 
self and rustic compeers around him, in his and their native language. — 
Though a rhymer from his earliest years, at least from the earliest impulse 
of the softer passions, it was not till very lately that the applause, perhaps 
the partiality, of friendship, wakened his vanity so far as to make him think 
any thing of his worth showing ; and none of the following works were com- 
posed with a view to the press. To amuse himself with the little creations 
of his own fancy, amid the toil and fatigues of a laborious life ; to transcribe 
the various feelings, the loves, the griefs, the hopes, the fears, in his own 
breast ; to find some kind of counterpoise to the struggles of a world, al- 
ways an alien scene, a task uncouth to the poetical mind — these were 
his motives for courting the Muses, and in these he found poetry to be 
its own reward. 

Now that he appears in the public character of an author, he does it 
with fear and trembling. So dear is tame to the rhyming tribe, that even 
he, an obscure, nameless bard, shrinks aghast at the thought of being 
branded as — An impertinent blockhead, obtruding liis nonsense on the 
world ; and, because he can make a shift to jingle a few doggerel Scotch 
rhymes together, looking upon himself as a poet of no small consequence, 
forsooth ! 

It is an observation of that celebrated poet, Shenstone, whose divine ele- 
gies do honour to our language, our nation, and our species, that " Humility 
has depressed many a genius to a hermit, but never raised one to fame !" 
If any critic catches at the word (/enitcs, the author tells him once for all, 
that he certainly looks upon himself as possessed of some poetic abilities, 
otherwise his pubUshing in the manner he has done, would be a manoeuvre 
below the worst jBpacter, which, he hopes, his worst enemy will ever 
give him. But to^R genius of a Ramsay, or the glorious dawnings of the 
poor, unfortunate Fergusson, he, with equal unaffected sincerity, declares, 
that, even in his highest pulse of vanity, he has not the most distant pre- 
tensions. These two justly admired Scotch poets he has often had in his 
»ye in the following pieces ; but rather with a view to kindle at their flame, 
than for servile imitation. 



cxHv PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. 

To his subscribers, the autlior returns his most sincere thanks : Not the 
mercenary bow over a counter, but the heart-throbbing gratitude of the 
bard, conscious how much he owes to benevolence and friendship for gra- 
tifying him, if he deserves it, in that dearest wish of every poetic bosom- 
to be distinguished. He begs his readers, particularly the learned and the 
polite, who may honour him with a perusal, that they will make every al- 
lowance for education and circumstances of life ; but if, after a fair, can- 
did, and impartial criticism, he shall stand convicted of dullness and non- 
sense, let him he done by as he would in that case do by others — let him 
be condimned, without mercy, to contempt and oblivion. 



• 



.•n^K HAIKOaSJAO 5HT OT KOITAOIGHa Utb 

45e.*t?y5 J?or?ofi sffj ^sw t«yTM'»R9fiT !)f?cf hnc n»m Ijsa* 'ic «^rfIlJfi<^f srfl jfjlTf 
•; a.'iJnV' 'moT 7 hh'-jjja HJ70'^ haiulfii 'to «a9n?i;a 

/? Vft.'fi fins ; 0'»nfjl"g }nf;njj;ijrii li.': liiriiJI im)V is Jl.u -'ii uoijq'Jiioci v£,M 

I mi. 

iSljUiilfiTg !?.o'ro'.v •.':.''/V 

N9Jg,S J|E^ J^-D: ^GENTLEMEN 

,}nn-r:o3 oiJaiuiI boiovoj;) i^icni -auo? 

OB THE 



CALEDONIAN HUNT. 






^y LonDS and Gentlemen, 

A Scottish Bard, proud of the name, and whose highest ambition is to 
sing in his Country's service — where shall he so properly look for patron- 
age as to the illustrious names of his Native Land ; those who bear the ho- 
nours and inherit the virtues of their Ancestors ? Tlie Poetic Genius of 
my Country found me, as the prophetic bard Elijah did Elisha — at the 
plough ; and threw her inspiring mantle over me. She bade me sing the 
loves, the joys, the rural scenes and rural pleasures of my native soil, in my 
native tongue ; I turned my wild, artless notes, as she inspired — She whis- 
pered me to come to this ancient Metropolis of Caledonia, and lay my 
Songs under your honoured protection : I now obey her dictates. 

Though much indebted to your goodness, I do not approach you, my 
Lords and Gentlemen, in the usual style of dedication, to thank you for 
past favours ; that path is so hackneyed by prostituted learning, that ho- 
nest rusticity is ashamed of it. Nor do 1 present this Address with the 
venal soul of a servile Author, looking for a continuation of those favours : 
I was bred to the Plough, and am independent. I come to claim the com- 
mon Scottish name with you, my illustrious Countrymen ; and to tell Juc 
world that I glory in the title. I come to congratulate my Country, that 
the blood of her ancient heroes still runs uncontaminated ; and that from 
your courage, knowledge, and public-spirit, she may expect protection, 
wealth, and liber^M|n the last place, I come to prefer my warmest wishea 
to the Great Foi^Hf of Honoui*, the Monarch of the Universe, for your 
weliare and happiness. 

When you go forth to awaken the Echoes, in the ancient and favourite 
amusement of your forefathers, may Pleasure ever be of your party ; and 
may Social Joy await your rctvurn : When harassed in courts or campi 



clxv! DEDICATION TO THE CALEDONIAN HUNT. 

>vith the jostlingg of bad men and bad mea?urcs, may the honest consci* 
ousness of injured worth attend your return to your Native Seats ; and 
niay Domestic Happiness, with a smiling welcome, meet you at your gates! 
May corruption shrin.k at your kindling indignant glance ; and may tyranny 
in the Ruler, and licentiousness iu the People, equally find an inexorable 
foe! 

I have tjji^-^^i^ur to be, 

With the sincerest gratitude, 

Your moet devoted humble servant, 



Edinburgh, ) 



anT MO ROBERT BURNS 



April 4, 1787. f .XXIHI VIAIKOQaJAD 



OJ zl noijidma izoil-ghl ozodir bnn ,9fnca 9r[l Ho huoiq ,h'ic?I ilaiJJooB A 
-noiJcq ml jIooI •^haqo'iq 02 od llnda oioflw- — ooivioa a'^ciJnuoD aid ni gnla 
-od odj mod od7/08odi ;hns:J. oviicH aidlo zsnifln zuohuidi'i odi oJ zn oga 
lo euiflbt) oiJoo*! odT 1 8-ro3aoanA thtli lo eonJilv oilJ Jiioilni bn/j ztuoa 
adJ ic — cdail!! bib Aii\il3i b-icd oiJodqoiq orl) zs t^m b[iu6\ \-tiauoO vm 
oifj gnia orn sbsd 3d8 .om lovo sliawrn ^niiiqani lod v/o'idj bnc ; dguolq 
(m ni .lioa oviJcn vm lo 39iLf2coIq Icim bnc zonooz Icwf odt t2Xo|. oih ,8ovoi 
-8id\w 0(13— .baiiqanx gds gij ,80ion- gaabiB ,bli'v ■^m bomuJ I ; ongnoi ovijen 
Xm \!d bna .cinobaliiD lo giloqoitoM jnoionn »:JrIJ oJ omoo oi ,ofn boioq 
^oliiJoib 19x1 v9do v/oa I : noijooJo'iq baiiionoxl ixjo'{ lobrm 2gno2 

\m tuo^ dDSoiqqs Jorr ob I ,33Dnboo^ luo'^ oJ boJdobni donm dgi/odT 
loTt 00^ dnfidj o) ^rroiinoibsb 'lo ol-^Ja Ifiuan sdi ni ^nomoIinoO bnr> ?.bioJ 
•od ladi f^ftimxjol bojuliisofq vd bo'{on:{ocd oa ?.i dJeq icdJ ; ziuo/i'A Jacq 
«iIj dli-w aaaiijhA aidJ inoaoiq I ob -loVi ,1i I0 bomfiflas ai xihti?.u-i Jaon 
: eiuoYBi oaodJlo nohGunijnoo s lo't ^jniilool ,TodiuA olivioa c'lo luoa Ir,ri9V 
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POETRY. 




imwn 



POEMS, 

CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 



THE TWA DOGS: 

A TALE. 

'TwAS in that' place o' Scotland's isle. 
That bears the name o' Auld King Coil, 
Upon a bonnie day in June, 
"\STien wearing thro' the afternoon, 
Twa dogs that were na thrang at hame, 
Forgather'd ance upon a time. 

The first I'll name they ca'd him Ccesar, 
Was keepit for his Honour's pleasure : 
His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs, 
Show'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs ; 
But whalpit some place far abroad, 
"Where sailors gang to fish for cod. 

His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar 
Show'd him the gentleman and scholar : 
But tho' he was o' high degree. 
The fient a pride na pride had he ; 
But wad hae spent cm. hour caressin', 
Ev'n with a tinkler gipsey's messin'. 
At kirk or market, mill or smiddie. 
Nae tawted tyke, tho' e'er sae duddie, 
But he wad stan't, as glad to see him. 
And stroan't on stanes an' hillocks wi' him. 

The tlther was a ploughman's collie, 
A rhyming, ranting, raving billie, 
"Wha for his fi-j^ud an' comrade had him, 
And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him. 
After some dog in Highland sang,* 
Was made lang sync — Lord knows how laug. 

He was a gash an' faithfu' tyke, 
As ever lap a sheugh or dyke. 
His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face, 
Aye gat him friends in ilka place. 
His breast was white, his towzie back 
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy plack ; 
His gawcie tail, wi' upwaro'curl, 
Hung o'er his hurdles wi' a swurl. 



v.CuchuUln's dog In Ossian't Fingal. 



Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither. 
An' unco pack an' thick thegither ; 
Wi' social noise whyles snuflf d and snowkit ; 
Whyles mice and mowdieworts they howkit ; 
Whyles scour'd awa in lang excursion, 
An' wony'd ither in diversion ; 
Until wi' daflfin weary grown, 
Upon a knowe they sat them down, 
And there began a lang digression, 
About the lords o' the creation, 

C^SAR. 

I've often wonder'd honest Luath, 
What sort o' life poor dogs like you navs ; 
An' when the gentry's hfe I saw, 
What way poor bodies lived ava. 

Our Laird gets in his racked rents. 
His coals, his kain, and a' his stents : 
He rises when he lilies himsel' j 
His flunkies answer at the bell } 
He ca's his coach, he ca's his horse ; 
He draws a bonnie silken purse. 
As lang's my tail, whare, thro' the steeks, 
The yellow letter'd Geordie keeks. 

Frae morn to e'en its nought but toiling^ 
At baking, roasting, frying, boiling ; 
An' tho' the gentry fast are stechin', 
Yet ev'n the ha' folk fill their pechan 
Wi' sauce, ragouts, and sic like trashtrie, 
That's little short o' downright waetrie. 
Our Whipper-in, wee blastit wonner. 
Poor worthless elf, it eats a dinner. 
Better than ony tenant man 
His Honour has in a' the Ian' : 
An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch in, 
I own its past ray comprehension. 

LUATH. 

Trowth, Csesar, whyles they're fash't eneugk 
A cotter howkin in a i*heugh, 
Wi' dirty stanes biggin a dyke. 
Baring a quarry, and sic like. 
Himself, a wife, he thus sustains, 
A sniytrie o' wee duddie weans, 
An' nought but his han' darg; to keep 
Them righf and tight in thack an' rape. 

21 



BURNS' WORKS. 



An' when tliey meet wi' lair disasters, 
Like lots o' health, or want of maaten, 
Ye maiit wad think, a wee touch langer, 
An' they maun starve o' cauld and hunger ; 
But, how it comes, I never ken'd yet, 
They're maistly wonderfu' contented ; 
An' buirdly chiels, an' clever hizzies, 
Are bred in sic a way as this is. 



But then to see how ye're negleckit, 
How hufiPd, and cufTd, and disrespeckit ! 
L— d, man, our gentry care as little 
For delvers, ditchers, and sic cattle ; 
They gang as saucy by poor fo'k, 
As I wad by a stinking brock. 

I'tc notic'd on our Laird's court day 
An' mony a time my heart's been wae, 
Poor tenant bodies, scant o' cash, 
Haw they maun thole a factor's snash ; 
He'll stamp an' threaten, curse an' swear, 
He'll apprehend them, poind their gear ; 
While they maun stan', wi* aspect humble, 
An' hear it a', an' fear an' tremble ! 

I see how folk live that hae riches ; 
But surely poor folk maun be wretches. 

LUATH. 

They're nae sae wretched's ane wad think ; 
Tbo' constantly on poortith's brink : 
They're sae accustomed wi' the sight, 
The view o't gi'es them little fright. 

Then chance an* fortune are sae guide;!. 
They're aye in less or mair provided ; 
An' tho* fatigu'd wi' close employment, 
A blink o* rest's a sweet enjoyment. 

The dearest comfort o' their lives. 
Their grushie weans an' faithfu' wives ; 
The prattlin things are just their pride 
That sweetens a' their fire-side. 

An' whyles twalpennie worth o' nappy 
Can mak the bodies unco happy ; 
They lay aside their private cares, 
To mind the Kirk and State aifairs : 
They'll talk o' patronage and priests, 
Wi' kindling fury in their breasts, 
Or tell what new taxation's comin', 
And ferlie at the folk in Lon'on. 

As bleak-fac'd Hallowmas returns, 
They get the jovial, rantin' kirns. 
When rural life, o' every station. 
Unite in common recreation : 
Love blinks. Wit slaps, an' social Mirth, 
Forgets there's Care upo' the sarth. 

That merry day the year begins. 
They bar the door on frosty winds ; 
The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream 
An' sheds a heart-inspiring steam ; 



The luntin' pipe, and sneeshin* mill, 
Are handed round wi' right guid will : 
The cantie auld folks crackin' crouse. 
The young anes rantin' thro' the house,- 
My heart has been sae fain to see them, 
That I for joy hae barkit wi' them. 

Still it's owre true that ye hae sud, 
Sic game is now owre aften play'd. 
There's monie a creditable stock 
O' decent, honest, fawsont fo'k. 
Are riven out baith root and branch. 
Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench, 
Wha thinks to knit himself the &ster 
In favours wi' some gentle master, 
Wha aiblins thrang a parliamentin'. 
For Britain's guid his saul indentin'— • 



Haith, lad, ye little ken about it : 
For Britain's guid ! — guid faith, I doubt it \ 
Say, rather, gaun as Premiers lead him, 
An' sayin' aye or no's they bid him : 
At operas an' plays parading, 
Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading ; 
Or may be, in a frolic daft, 
To Hague or Calais takes a waft. 
To mak a tour, and tak a whirl. 
To learn bon ton and see the worl' 

There, at Vienna, or Versailles, 
He rives his father's auld entails ! 
Or by Madrid he takes the rout, 
To thrum guitars and fecht wi' nowt ; 
Or down Italian vista startles, 
Wh — re-hunting among groves o' myrtles : 
Then bouses drumly German water. 
To mak himsel' look fair and fatter, 
An' clear the consequential sorrows, 
Love gifts of Carnival signoras. 
For Jiritain's guid ! — for her destruction ! 
Wi' dissipation, feud, an' faction, 

LUAXH. 

Hech man ! dear sirs ! is that the gat« 
They waste sae mony a braw estate ! 
Are we sae foughten an' harass'd 
For gear to gang that gate at last ! 

O would they stay aback frae courts,' 
An' please themselves wi' countra sports, 
It wad for every ane be better, 
The Laird, the Tenant, an' the Cotter ! 
For thae frank, rantin', ramblin* billies, 
Fient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows ; 
Except for breakin' o' their timmer, 
Or speakin' lightly o' their limmer, 
Or shootin' o' a hare or moor-cock, 
The ne'er a bit they're ill to poor folk. 

But will ye tell me. Master Casar, 
Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure ! 
Nae cauld or hunger e'er can steer them, 
The very thought o't need na fear them. 



POEMS. 



L — J, xasm, were ye but whyles where I am, 
The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em. 

It's true, they need na starve or sweat, 
Thro' winter's cauld or simmer's heat ; 
They've nae sair wark to craze their banes, 
An' fill auld age wi' gripes an' granes : 
But human bodies are sic fools, 
For a' their colleges an' schools, 
That when nae real ills perplex them. 
They mak enow theraselves to vex them. 
An' aye the less they hae to sturt them, 
In like proportion less will hurt them ; 
A country fellow at the pleugh, 
His acres till'd, he's riglit eneugh ; 
A country girl at her wheel. 
Her dizzens done, she's unco weel ; 
But Gentlemen, an' Ladies warst, 
Wi' cv'ndown want o' wark are curst. 
Thev loiter, lounging, lank, an' lazy ; 
Tho' deil haet ails them, yet uneasy ; 
Their days insipid, dull, an' tasteless ; 
Their nights unquiet, lang, an' restless ; 
An' ev'n their sports, their balls, an' race=, 
Their gallopin' through public places. 
There's sic parade, sic ponip, an' art, 
The joy can scarcely reach the heart. 
The men cast out in party matches, 
Then sowther a' in deep debauches : 
Ae night they're mad wi' drink an wh-ring, 
Neist day their life is past enduring. 
The ladies arm-in-arm in clusters, 
As great and gracious a' as sisters; 
But hear their absent thoughts o' ithcr, 
Thev're a' run deils an' jads thegither. 
Whyles o'er the wee bit cup and platie, 
rhey sip the scandal potion pietty ; 
Or lee lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks 
Pore owre the devil's pictur'd beuks ; 
Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard, 
An' cheat like ony unhang'd blackguard. 

There's some exception, man an' woman ; 
But this is Gentry's life in common. 

By this the sun was out o' sight : 
An' darker gloaming brought the night ; 
The hum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone ; 
The kve stood rowtin' i' the loan : 
When up they gat an shook their lugs, 
Reioic'd they were na men but dogs ; 
And each took aff his several way, 
Resolv'd to meet some ither day. 



SCOTCH DRINK. 



Gie him strong; tirink, until he wink, 
That's sinkuig in despair ; 

An' liquor guid to Gre his bluid, 
That's prest wi' grief an' care ; 



There let him bouse, and deep carouec 

Wi' bumpers flowing o'er, 
Till he forgets his loves or debts, 

An' minds his griefs no more. 

SoUmion's Proverbs, xxxi. 6, 7. 



Let other poets raise a fracas, 

'Bout vines, and wines, and drunken Sacchiu, 

An' crabbit names an' stories wrack us. 

An' grate our lug, 
I sing the juice Scots hear can mak us, 

In glass or jug. 

O Thou, my Muse.' guid auld Scotch Drink 
Whether thro' wimpling worms thou jink, 
Or, richly brown, ream o'er the brink, 

In glorious faem. 
Inspire me, till I lisp and wink, 

To sing thy name. 

Let husky '\^Tieat the haughs adorn, 
And Aits set up their awnie horn, 
An' Pease and Beans at e'en or morn. 

Perfume the plain, 
Lccze me on thee, John Barleycorn, 

Thou king o' grain ! 

On thee aft Scotland chows her cood, 
In souple scones, the wail o' food ! 
Or tumblin' in the boiling flood, 

Wi' kail an' beef; 
But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood. 

There thou shines chief. 

Food fills the warac, an' keeps us livin' ; 
Tho' life's a gift no worth receivin'. 
When heavy dragg'd wi' pine and grievin' ; 

But oil'd by thee, 
The wheels o' life gae down-hill, scrievin', 
Wi' rattlin' glee. 

Thou clears the head o' doited Lear ; 
Thou cheers the heart o' drooping Care ; 
Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair ; 

At's weary toil ; 
Thou cvenirightens dark Despair 

Wi' gloomy smile. 

Aft, clad in massy silver weed, 
Wi' Gentles thou erects thy head ; 
Yet humbly kind in time o' need, 

The poor man's wine, 
His wee drap parritch, or his bread, 

Thou kitchens fine. 

Thou art the life o' public haunts ; 
But thee, what were our fairs and rants ? 
Ev'n godly meetings o' the saunts, 

By thee inspir'd. 
When gaping they besiege the tents. 

Are doubly fir'd. 

That merry night we get the corn in, 
O sweetly then thou reams the horn in ! 
Or reekin' on a New-year morning 
In cog or bicker 



BURNS' WORKS. 



An' juit t WM drap ip'iitual bum in, 
An' gusty sucker ! 

When Vulcan gies liis'bellows breath, 
An' ploughinen gather wi' their graith, 
O rare ! to see the fizz an' freath 

I' the lugget caup ! 
Then Hvrnervin * comes on like death 
At ev'ry chaup. 

Nae mercy, then, for aim or steel ; 
The hrawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel'. 
Brings hard owrehi)), wl' sturdy wheel, 

The strong fnrehammer, 
Till block an' studdie ring an' reel 

Wi' dinsome clamour. 

When skirlin weaiiies see the light, 
Thou maks the gossips clatter bright, 
How fumlin' cuifs their dearies slight, 

Wue worth the name ! 
Nae howdie gets a social night. 

Or pluck frae thom. 

When neebours anger at a plea, 
An' just as wud as wud can be. 
How easy can the harleij bree 

Cement the quarrel ; 
It'» aye the cheapest lawyer's fee, 

To taste tlie barrel. 

Alake ! that d'er my Muse has reason 
To wyte her countrymen wi' treason ; 
But mony daily weet their weason 

Wi' liquors nice, 
An' hardly, in a winter's season, 

E'er spier her price, 

Wae worth that hrandi/, burning trash, 
Fell source o' monie a pain an' brash ! 
Twins monie a poor, doylt, drunktn ha'^h, 

O' half his days ; 
An' Bends, beside, auld Scotland's c;ish 
To her warst faes. 

Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well ! 
Ye chief, to you ray tale I tell. 
Poor plackless devils like mysel' ! 
It sets you ill, 
Wi' bitter, dearthfu' wines to mell. 
Or foreign gill. 

May gravels round his blather wrench. 
An* gouts torment him inch by inch, 
Wha twists his gruntle wi* a glunch 

O' sour disdain, ' 
Out owre a glass o' ivhisktf punch 

Wi' honest men. 

O Whiskt^ ! soul o' plays an' pranks ! 
Accept a Bai'die's humble thanks ! 
When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks 
Are my poor verses ! 



• Bi»m«(^n— Bum-WMt'mii— the blacksmith- 
(tppropriata title. 



Thou comes- 



>they rattle i' their rankl 
At ither's a — ■ ! 



Thee, Ferintosh ! O sadly lost ! 
Scotland, lament frae coast to coast ! 
Now colic grips, and barkin hoast, . 

iMay kill us a' ; 
For loyal Forbes' chartered boast 

Is ta'en awa' ! 

Thae curst horse leeches o' th' Excise, 
Wha mak the Whisky Steils their prize ! 
Hand up thy han', Djil ! ance, twice, thrice ! 

There, seize the blinkers ! 
An' bake them up in brunstane pies 

Tor poor d — n'd drinkers. 

Fortune ! if tliou'Il but gic me still 
Hale bretks, a scone, an' M'hi^fit/ pill, 
An' rowth o' rhyme to lave at will, 

Tak a' the rest, 
An' dc;0't abuut as thy blind skill 

Directs thee best. 



TliE AUTIIOU S 

EARNEST CRY AND PRAYP:R» 

TO Til". 

SCOTCH REPRESENTATIVES 

IN THK • 

HOUSE OF COMMONS. 



Dearest of Distillation ! last and best—— 
How art thou lost ! Parody on Milton. 



Ye Irish Lords, \c Knights an' Squires, 
Wha repreaait our brughs an' shires, 
And doucely manage our aflairs 

In parliament, 
To you a simple Poets ])rayers 

Are humbly sent. 

Alas ! my roupet Muse is hearse ! 
Your honours' hearts wi' grief 'twad pierce 
To see her sittin' on her a — 

Low i' the dust. 
An' screichin* out prosaic verse, 

An' like to brust ! 

Tell them wha hae the chief direction, 
Scotland an' ine's in great ai&iction, 
E'er sin' they laid that curst restriction 

On Aquavita ; 
An' rouee them up to strong conviction 

An' move their pity. 



• This was written before the act anent the Scotch 
Distilleries, of session 1786 ; for which Scotland aiu) 
the Author retUm their most grateful thanks, 



POEMS. 



Stav forth, an' tell yon Premier Youth, 
The h • est, .open, naked truth : 
Tell hi 1 o' mine and Scotland's drouth, 

His servants humble : 
The mi kle devil blaw ye south, 

If ye dissemble ! 

Does my great man glunch an' gloon\ ! 
Speak '.••.t, ail' never fash your thumb : 
Let pos:.- an' pensions sink or soora 

Wi' them wha grant 'em 
If honest y they canna come, 

Far better want 'em. 

In gat :•. 'ring votes you were na slack ; 
Now star 'I as tightly by your tack ; 
Ne'er claw your lug, an fidge your back. 

An' hum an" haw ; 
But raise i our arm, an' tell your crack 

Before them a' 

Paint S. otland greeting owre her thrissle ; 
Her mutch < n stoup as toom's a whisslc ; 
An' d-mn'(i Kxcisemen in a bussle. 

Seizin' a steU, 
Triumphant rushin't like a mussel. 

Or lampit shell. 

Then on th. tither hand present her, 
A blackguard 'smuggler right behint her. 
An' cheek-for-ciiow, a chuffie Vintner, 

Colleaguing join, 
Picking her pouji-. as bare as winter 

Of a' kind coin. 

Is there, that bears the name o' Scot, 
But feels his heart's s.'uid rising hot. 
To see his poor auld .vHther's pot 

'j'bus dung in staves, 
An' plunder'd o' her hi.'flmost groat 

By '^- 'lows knaves ? 

Alas ! I'm but a namele?'. wight, 
Trode i' the mire out o' sigl.r. ! 
But could I like Montgomeriei 6ght, 

Or gab \\ki Boswell, 
There's some sark-necks I wad (iraw tight, 
An' tie some hose well. 

God bless your Honours, can ye see't, 
The kind, auld, cantie Carlin greet, 
An' no get warmly to your feet. 

An gar them bear is, 
An' tell them wi' a patriot heat. 

Ye winnd bear it ! 

Some o' you nicely ken the \a.v/i, 
To round the period an' pause, 
An' wi' rhetoric clause on clause 

To raak harangues ; 
Then echo thro' Saint Stephen's wa's 

Auld Scotland's wrangs. 

Dempster, a true blue Scot I'se warran ; 
Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran ; • 



Sir .\dam Ferguson. 



;^n' that glib-gabbet Highland BaroC, 

The Laird o' Graham ;• 

An' anc, a chap that's damn'd auldfarran, 
Dandas his name. 

Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie ; 
True Campbells, Frederick an' Hay ; 
An' Livingitone, the bauld Sir Willie ; 

An' mony ithers. 
Whom auld Demosthenes or TuUy . 

Might own for brithers. 

Arouse, my boys ! exert your mettle. 
To get auld Scotland back her kettle ; 
Or faith ! I'll wad my new pleugh-pettle, 

Ye'll see't or lang, 
She'll teach you, wi' a reekin' whittle, 

Anither sang. 

This wliile she's been in canc'rous mood. 
Her lost Militia fir'd her bluid ; 
(Deil na they never mair do guid, 

Play'd her that pUskie!) 
An' now she's like to rin red-wud 

About her Whisky. 

An' L — d if ance they pit her till't. 
Her tartan petticoat she'll kilt. 
An' durk an' pistol at her belt. 

She'll tak the Etreets, 
An' rin her whittle to the hilt, 

r the first she meets ! 

For G — d sake. Sirs ! then speak her f«Vi 
An' straik her cannie wi' the hair. 
An' to the muckle house repair, 

Wi' instant speed. 
An' strive, wi' a' your wit an' kar. 

To gec remead. 

Yon iU-tongu'd tinkler, Charlie Fox, 
May taunt you wi' his jeers an' mocks ; 
But gic him't het, my hsarty cocks ! 

E'en CO we the caddie 
An' send him to his dicing box 

An' sportin' lady. 

Tell yon guid bluid o' auld Bockonnock's, 

I'll be his debt twa mashlum bannocks, 

An' drink his health in auld Nanse Tinnockij\ 

Nine times a week. 
If he some scheme, like tea and winnocks, 

Wad kindly seek. 

Could he some commutation broach, 
I'll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch, 
He need na fear their foul reproach 

Nor erudition. 
Yon mixtie-maxtie queer hotch-potch, 

The Coalition. 

Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue ; 
She's just a devil wi' a rung ; 



• The present Duke of Montrose (1800.) 

t A worthy old Hostess of the Author's in Maueh. 

line, where he sometimes studies Politic! over B glai* 

of guid auld Scotch Drink. 



BURNS* WORKS. 



An' if the promise auld or young 

To tak their part, 

Tho* by the neck she should be strung, 
She'll DO desert. 

An* now, ye chosen Five-and- Forty, 
May still your Mithcr's heart support ye : 
Then, tho' a Minister grow dorty, 

An' kick your place, 
Ye'Il snap your fingers, poor an' hearty. 

Before his face. 

God bless your Honours a' your days, 
Wi' soujis o' kail and biats o' claise, 
In spite o* a' the thievish kaes 

That haunt St Jumie'i ! 
Your humble poet sintjs an' jjrays 

While Hub his name is. 



Till whare ye sit, on craps o' heather, 
Ye tine your dam ; 

{Freedom and Wliishy gang thegither !) 
Tak aff your dram ! 



POSTSCRIPT. 

Let half-stai^'d slaves, in warmer skies 
See future wines, rii-h cltist'riiig rise ; 
Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies, 

But l>lithe and frisky. 
She eyes her freeborn martial boys. 

Tak aff their Whisky. 

What tho' their Phabus kinder warms. 
While fragrance blooms and beauty charms ! 
"When ■v/retches range, in famish'd swarms. 

The scented groves. 
Or hounaed forth, dishonour arms 

In hungry droves. 

Their gun's a burden on their shouther ; 
They downa bide the sfmk o' pouther ; 
Their bauldest thought's a honk'rlng swither 

To Stan' or rin. 
Till skelp — a shot — they're aff, a' throwiher. 
To save their skin. 

But bring a Scotsman fiat his hill, 
Clap in his cheek a Highland gill, 
Say, such is royal George's will, 

An' there's tlie foe, 
He bas nae thought but how to kill 
Twa at a blow. 

Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him ; 
Death comes, with fearless eye he sees him ; 
Wi' bluidy hand a welcome gies him ; 

An' when he fa's. 
His latest draught o' breathin' lea'es him 

In faint huzzas. 

Sages their solemn een may steek. 
An' raise a philosophic reek, 
An' physically causes seek, 

In clime an' season ; 
But tell me Whisky's name in Greek, 

I'll tell the reason. 

Scotland, my auld, respected Mither ! 
Tho* wbylw ye moistify youi leather, 



THE HOLY FAIR.* 



A robe of soemin!; truth and trust 

Hill eraftv Observation; 
And secret hnoK wilh poison 'd crust, 

The (iirk of Defamation : 
A loavk thai liUf the );<irf;i't show'd 

I)yi'-var\iji'; on tlic iiiRPOn ; 
Ami for a mantle l.-auo ami broad, 

lie wrapt him in lleliifiun. 

H IJinKrisy-ata-mo- • 



T. 
Ui'ON a simmer Sui\day morn, 

When Nature's face is fair, 
I walked forth to view the corn. 

An' siiulf tlie eallar air. 
The rising sun owre Gnhtnn muil', 

Wi' glorious lifjht was glintin' 
The bates were hirplin' down the urs, 

The lav'rocks they were chantiu' 

Fu' sweet that day. 

II. 

As liglitsomely I glowr'd abroad 

To see a scene sae gay. 
Three hizzies, early at the road, 

Cam skelpin' up the way ; 
Twa had nianteeles o' dolefu' black, 

But ane wi' lyart lining ; 
The third that gaed a wee a-back, 

Was in the fashion shining, 

Fu' gay that day. 

III. 

The twa appear'd like sisters twin. 

In feature, form, an' claes : 
Their visage wither'd, lang, an' thin. 

An' sour as ony slaes ; 
The third came up, hap-stap-an'-loup, 

As light as ony lammie. 
An' wi" a curehie low did stoop, 

As soon as e'er she saw me, 

Fu' kiad that day. 

IV. 

Wi bannet aff, quoth 1, < Sweet lass, 

I think ye seent to ken me ; 
I'm sure I've seen that bonnip. face, 

But yet I canna name ye.' 
Quo' she, an' laughin' as she spak. 

An' tak's me by the hands, 
" Ye, for my sake, ha'e gi'en the feck 

Of a' the ten commands 

A screed some day. 



*Holy Fair is a common phrase in the west of Scot- 
laad loi a saciamental occauoa. 



POEMS, 



" My name is Fun — your cronie dear. 

The nearest friend ye ha'e ; 
An' this is Superstition here, 

An' that's Hypocrisy. 
I'm gaun to Holy Fair, 

To sp^-nd an hour in diiffin' ; 
Gin ye'll go there, yon runkled pair. 

We will get fatuous liughiu' 

At them thi* day." 

VI. 

Quoth I, ' With a' my heart I'll do't ; 

I'll get my Sunday's sark on, 
An' meet you on the holy spot ; 

Faith we'se hae fine remarkin' !' 
Then I gaed hame at crowdie time, 

An' soon I made me ready ; 
For roads were clad, frae side to side, 

Wi' monie a weary body, 

In droves that day. 

VII. 
Here farmers gash, in ridiu' graith 

Gaed hoddin' by their cotters : 
Their swankies young, in braw braid-claith 

Are spriugin' o'er the gutters. 
The lasses, skelpin' barefoot, thrang, 

In silks an' scarlets glitter ; 
Wi' sweet-milk cheese in monie a whang, 

An' fark bak'd wi' butter, 

Fu' cruuap that day. 

VIII. 
When by the plate we set our nose, 

Wcel heaped up wi' ha'pence, 
A greedy glowr Black Bonnet throws, 

An' we maun draw our tippence. , 
Then in we go to see the show, 

On ev'ry side they're gatherin', 
Some carrying deals, some chairs an' stools, 

An' some are busy bletherin', 

Right loud that day. 

IX. 

Here stands a shed to fend the show'rs, 

Au' screen our countra Gentry, 
There, racer Jess, an' twa-three whores, 

Are blinkin' at the entry. 
Here sits a raw of tittlin' jades, 

Wi' heavin' breast and bare neck, 
An' there a batch of wabster lads, 

Blackguardin' frae K ck, 

Tot fun this day. 



Here some are thinkin' on their sins. 

An' some upo' their claes ; 
Ane curses feet that fyl'd his shins, 

Anither sighs an' prays ; 
On this hand sits a chosen swatch, 

Wi' screw'd up grace-proud faces ; 
On that a set o' chaps at watch, 

Thrang winkin* on the lasses 

To chairs that day. 



XL 



O happy is the man an' blest ! 

Nae wonder that it pride him ! 
Wha's ain dear lass, that be likes b««t. 

Comes clinkiu' down beside him ! 
Wi' arm repos'd on the chair-back, 

He sweetly does compose him ! 
Which, by degrees, slips round her neck, 

An's loof upon her bosom 

Unkenn'd that day. 

XII. 

Now a' the congregation o'er 

Is silent expectation ; 
For speels the holy door 

Wi' tidings o' damnation. 
Should Hornie, as in ancient days, 

'Mang sons o' God present him. 
The vera sight o' 's face, 

To's ain het hame had sent him 

Wi' fright that day. 

XHI. 

Hear how he clears the points o' faith 

Wi' rattlin' an' thumpiu' ! 
Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath, 

He's stampin' an' he's jumpin' ! 
His lengthen'd chin, his turn'd-up snout, 

His eldritch squeel and gestures. 
Oh, how they fire the heart devout. 

Like cantharidian plasters. 

On sic a day ! 

XIV. 

But hark ! the tent has cbang'd its voice ; 

There's peace and rest nae langer : 
For a' the real judges rise, 

They canna sit for anger. 

opens out his cauld harangues 



On practice and on morals ; 
An' aflF the godly pour in thrangs. 
To gie the jars an' barrels 

A lift that day. 

XV. 

What signifies his barren shine 

Of moral pow'rs and reason ? 
His English style, an' gesture fine, 

Are a' clean out o' season. 
Like Socrates or Antonine, 

Or some auld pagan Heathen, 
The moral man he does define. 

But ne'er a word o' faith in 

That's right that day 

XVL 

In guid time comes an antidote 
Against sic poison'd nostrum : 

For » frae the water-fit. 

Ascends the holy rostrum : 

See, up he's got the word o' God, 
Aa' meek aa' mim has view'd it, 



d 



BURNS' WORKS. 



While Common-sense lia» ta'en the road, 
An* aff, an' up the Cowgate,* 

Fast, fast, that day.- 



XVIL 

nelst the guard relieves. 



Wee- 

An' orthodoxy raibles, 
Tho* io his heart he weel believes, 

And thinks it auld wives' fables : 
But, faith ; the birkie wants a manse 

So cannily he hums them ; 
Altho* his carnal wit and sense 

Like hafflins-ways o'ercomes him 

At times that day. 

xvhl 

Now but an' ben, the change-house fills, 

Wi' yill-caup commentators : 
Here's crying out for bakes and gills, 

And there the pint stoup clatters ; 
While thick an' thrang, an' loud an' lang, 

Wi' logic, an' wi' Scripture, 
They raise a din, that in the end, 

Is like to breed a rupture 

O' wrath that day. 

XIX. 
Leeze me on Dnnk ! it gi'es us mair 

Than either School or College : 
It kindles wit, it waukens lair. 

It pangs us fou o' knowledge. 
Be't whisky gill, or penny wheep, 

Or ony etronger potion. 
It never fails, on drinking deep. 

To kittle up our notion 

By night or day. 

XX. 

The lads an' lasses, blythely bent 

To mind baith saul an' body, 
Sit round the table weel content. 

An' steer about the toddy. 
On this ane's dress, an' that ane's leuk, 

They're makin' observations ; 
While some are cozie i' the neuk. 

An' forming assignations 

To meet some day. 

XXI. 

But now the L — d's ain trumpet touts. 

Till a' the hills are rairin'. 
An' echoes back return the shouts : 

Black is na spairin' : 

His piercing words, like Highland awords. 

Divide the joints an' marrow ; 
His talk o' Hell, where devils dwell, 

Our very sauls does harrow f 

Wi' fright that day. 

XXII. 

A vast, unbottom'd boundless pit, 
Fill'd fou o' lowin' brunstane, 



Wha's ragin' flame an' scorchin' heat. 
Wad melt the hardest whun-stane ! 

The half asleep start up wi' fear, 
An' think they hear it roarin'. 

When presently it does appear, 
'Twas but some neighbour snorin' 
Asleep that day. 

XXIII. 

'Twad be owre lang a tale to tell 

How monie stories past. 
An' how they crowded to the yill, 

When they were a' dismist : 
How drink gaed round, in cogs an' caaps, 

Amang the furms an' benches ; 
An' cheese an' bread, frae women's laps. 

Was dealt about in lunches 

An' dawds that day. 

XXIV. 

In comes a gaucie, gash guidwife. 

An' sits down by the fire. 
Syne draws her kebbuck an' her knife, 

The lasses they are shyer. 
The auld guidmen, about the grace, 

Frae side to side they bother. 
Till some ane by his bonnet lays. 

An' gi'es them't like a tether, 

Fu' lang that day. 

XXV. 

Wacsucks ! for him that gets nae lata, 

Or lasses that hae naething ! 
Sma' need has he to say a grace 

Or melvie his braw claithing ! 
O wives be mindfu' ance yoursel* 

How bonnie lads ye wanted. 
An' dinna for a kebbuck-heel. 

Let lasses be affi'onted 

On sic a day ! 

XXVI. 

Now Clinkumbell, wi' rattlin* tow. 

Begins to jow an' croon ; 
Some swagger hame, the best they dow, 

Some wait the afternoon. 
At slaps the billies halt a blink, 

Till lasses strip their shoon : 
Wi' faith an' hope, an' love an' drink, 

They're a' in famoiis tune, 

For crack that day. 

XXVIL 

How monie hearts this day converts 

O' sinners and o' lasses .' 
Their heai'ts o' stane, gin night, are gane 

As saft as ony flush is. 
There's some are fou o' love divine ; 

There's some ore fou o' brandy ; 
An' mony jobs that day begin. 

May end in houghmagandie 

Some ither day. 



• A street so called, which faces the tent in i 
t Sbakespeare'D Hamlet. 



POEMS. 



DEATH AND DOCTOR HORN- 
BOOK: 

A TRUE STORY. 

Some books are lies frae end to end, 
And some great litis were never penn'J : 
Ev'a Ministers, they liae been kenn'd, 

In holy rapture, 
A rousing whid, at times, to vend. 

And nail't \vi' Scripture. 

Tint this that I am ^aim to tell, 
Whicli lately on a night befell, 
Is just as truo's tlie De'iis in hell 

Or Diiblju city ■; 
Tliat e'a- he nearer eomes oursel' 

'S a muckle pity. 

The Clachan yiil had made ma canty, 
I was nae fou, but jujst had jjlerjty ; 
I stacher'd whiles, but yet took tent aye 

To free the ditches ; 
An' hillocks, stanes, an' bushes, kenn'd aye 

Frac ghaists an' witch.t,-. 

The rising moon .began to glow'r 
The distant Cumnock hills out-owro ; 
To count her horns, wi' a' my pov.'er, 

I set mysel' ; 
But whether she had three or four, 

I couldua tell. 

I was come round about the hill, 
And todiin down on Wille's mill, 
Setting my staff wi' a' my skill, 

To keep me sicker ; 
Tho' leeward whyles, against my will, 

I took a bicker. 

I there wi* Something did forgather. 

That put me in an eerie swither : 

An' awfu' scythe, out-owre ae shouther. 

Clear-dangling, hang ; 
A three-taed leister on the ither. 

Lay, large and lang. 

Its stature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa. 
The queerest shape that e'er I saw, 
For fient a wame it had ava ; 

And then, its shanks. 
They were as thin, as sharp, an' sma' 

As cheeks o' branks. 

' Guid-een,'quo'I ; ' Friend ! hae ye been mawin', 
When ither folk are busy sawin' ?' * ^ 
It seem'd to mak' a kind o' stan', 

But naething spak : 
At length, says I, • Friend, where ye gaun, 

Wili ye go back ?' 

It spak right howe, — ' My name is Death, 
But be na fley'd.'— Quoth I, ' Guid faith, 
Ye're maybe come to stap my breath ; 
But tent me, billie : 



• Thlf rencoiwtei happened in aeed-tjme, 17U. 



This wlii'lc 



I red ye weel, tak care e' skaJth, 

See there's a gfuljy !* 

' Guidman,' quo' he, ' put up your whittki 
I'm no design'd to try its mettle ; 
But if I did, I wad be kittle 

To be mislear'd, 
I wadna mind it, no, that spittle 

Out owre ray beard. 

' Weul, weel !' says I, ' a. bargain be't; 
Come, gie's your hand, an' sae we're grec't; 
We'llease oi;r shanks an' tak a seat, 

Come gie's your news ; 
h;e i;wa luony a gate, 

At mony a house.' 

' Ay, ay !' ([uo' he, an' shook his head, 
' Its eea a hinir, l:inrj time indeed 
Siu' I Ix'^'iii to uii-k the thread, 

An' choke the breath: 
Folk mauii do somcthinpf for their bread. 

An' sac maun Death. 

' Sax timusiU'd years are nearhand fled 

Sin' I was to the hutching bred. 

An' mony a scheme in vaiu's been laid, 

To btap or scar me j 
Till anc Iloriibjoli 's -}• taon up the trade, 

Aa' faith, he'll waur me. 

* Ye ken Jock Hornbook, i' tiie Clachan, 
Deil mak his king's hood in a spleuchan ! 
He's grown sae weel acquaint wi' Buckan \ 

An' ither chaps. 
The weans baud out thsir fingers laughia' 
An' pouk my hips. 

' See, here's a scythe, and tjiere'3 a dai't, 
They hae pierc'd mony a gallant heart : 
But Doctor Hornbook, wi' his art 

And cursed skill. 
Has made them baith no worth a f — t, 

Daraji'd haet they'll kill, 

' 'Twaa but yesti-een, nae farther gaen, 

I threw a noble throw at ane ; 

Wi' less, I'm sure, I've hundreds slain j 

But deil-ma-cai'e, 
It just play'd dirl on the bane. 

But did nae mair. 

' Hornbook was by, wi' ready ai't. 
And had sae fortified the part. 
That when 1 looked to my dart, 

It was sae blunt, 
Fient haet o't wad hae pierc'd the heart 

Of a kail-runt. 

* I di'ew my scythe in sic a fury. 



• An epidemical fever was then raging in that country. 
t This gcntJemaii, Dr. Hornbook, is, professioDally 
a brother of the Sovereign Order of the Ferula; but 
by intuition and inspiration, is at once an Apothecary, 
Surgeon, and Physician. 

% Buchan's Domestio Medicinei 



33 



16 



BURNS* WORKS. 



I nearhand coupit wl' my hurry, 
But yet the bauld Apothecary 

Withstood the bhock ; 
I might as weel hae tried a quarry 

O' hard whin rock. 

* Ev'n them he canna E;et attended, 
Altho' their face he ne'er had ken'd it, 
Just . in a kail-blade, and send it, 

As soon's he smells't, 
Baith their disease, and what will mend it, 
At once he tells't. 

' An* then a' doctors' saws and whittles. 
Of a' dimensions, shapes, an' mettles, 
A' kinds o' boxes, mugs, an' bottles, 

He's sure to hae ; 
Their Latin names as fast he rattles 

As A B C. 

* Calces o' fossils, earths, and trees ; 
True Sal-marinum o' the seas ; 
The Farina of beans and pease. 

He has't in plenty ; 
Aqua-fontis, what you please. 

He can content ye. 

' Forbye some new, uncommon weapons, 

Urinus Spiritus of capons ; 

Or Mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings ; 

Distill'd per se ; 
Sal-alkali o' Midge-tail clippins, 

An' mony mae.' , 

' Waes me for Johnny Ged's Hole • now ;' 
Quo* I, * If that the news be true ! 
His braw calf- ward where gowans grew, 

Sae white an' bonnie, 
Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plough ; 

They'll ruin Johnny !' 

The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh, 
An' says, ' Ye need na yoke the pleugh, 
Kirk-yards will soon be till'd eneugh, 

Tak ye nae fear ; 
They'll a' be trench'd wi' mony a sheugh 

In twa-three year. 

' Whare I kill'd ane a fair strae death, 
By loss o' blood or want o' breath. 
This night I'm free to tak my aith, 

That Hornbook's skill 
Has clad a score i' their last claith, 

By drap an' pill, 

' An honest Wabster to his trade, 

Whase wife's twa nieves were scarce weel bred, 

Gat tippence-worth to mend her head. 

When it was sair ; 
The wife slade cannie to her bed. 

But ne'er spak mair. 

* A countra Laird had ta'en the batts, 
Or some curmurring in his guts, , 



; The grave-digger. 



His only sou fur Hornbook seta. 

An' pays him weU ; 

The lad, for twa guid giraraer pets, 

Was laird himsel*. 

' A bonnie lass, ye ken her name. 

Some ill-brewn drink had hov'd her wame ; 

She trusts hersel', to hide the shame, 

In Hornbook's care ; 
Horn sent her aff to her lang hame, 
" To hide it there. 

That's just a swatch o' Hornbook's way ; 
Thus goes he on from day to day, 
Thus does he poison, kill, an' slay, 

An's weel paid for't ; 
Yet stops me o' my lawfu* prey, 

Wi' his damn'd dirt. 

' But hark ! I'll tell you of a plot. 
Though dinna ye be speaking o't ; 
I'll nail the self-conceited sot, 

As dead's a herrin' ; 
Neist time we meet, I'll wad a groat, 

He gets his fairin' 1' 

But just as he began to tell. 

The auld kirk-hammer strak the bell, 

Some wee short hour ayont the twal, 

Which rais'd us baith 
I took the way that pleased mysel'. 

And sae did Death, 



THE BRIGS OF AYR; 



A POERL 



Inscribed to J. B- 



-, Esq. Ayr. 



The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough, 
Learning his tuneful trade from evciy bough ; 
The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush. 
Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green 

thorn bush : 
The soaring lark, the perching red-breast shrill, 
Or deep-toned plovers, grey, wild whistling o'er 

the hill ; 
Shall he, nurst in the Peasant's lowly shed, . 
To hardy independence bravely bred. 
By early Poverty to hardship steel'd. 
And train'd to arms in stern Misfortune's 

field- 
Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes, 
The servile, mercenaiy Swiss of rhymes ? 
Or labour hard the panegyric close, 
With all the venal soul of dedicating Prose ? 
No ! though his artless strains he rudely sings, 
And throws his hand uncouthly o'er the strings. 
He glows with all the spirit of the Bard, 
Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear reward. 
Still, if some Patron's generous care he trace. 
Skilled in the secret, to bestow with grace ; 

When B befriends his humble name. 

And hands the rustic stranger up to fame, 



POEMS. 



u 



With heart-felt throes his grateful busom 

swells. 
The godlike bliss, to give alone excels. 



*Twas when the stacks get oa their winter 

hap, 
And thack and rape secure the toil-won crap : 
Potatoe bina:s are snugged up frae skaith 
Of coming Winter's l)iting, frosty breath; 
The bees, rejoicing o'tr their simmer toils, 
Uiinumber'd buds an' fluwers' delicious spoils, 
Seal'd up with frugal care in massive waxen 

piles, 
Are doom'd by man, that tyrant o'er the weak, 
The death o* devils, snioor'd wi' brimstone 

reek : 
The thundering guns are heard on ev'ry side, 
The wounded coveys, reelins;, scatter wide ; 
The feather'd fitld-mates, bound by Natuie's tie, 
Sires, mothers, children, iu one carn.ige lie : 
(What warm, poetic heart, but inly bleeds. 
And execrates man's savage, luthless deeds) ! 
Nae mair the flow'r in field ov meadow springs : 
Nae mair the grove wi' airy concert rings, 
Except, perhaps, the Robin's whistling glee, 
Proud o' the height o' some bit halt-lang tree ; 
The hoary morns precede the sunny davs, 
Mild, calm, serene, wide spreads the noontide 

blaze, 
While thick the gossamour waves wanton in 

the rays, 
'Twas in that season, when a simple bard. 
Unknown and poor, simplicitv's reward, 
Ae night, within the ancient brugh of Ai/r, 
By whim inspired, or haply prest wi' care, 
He left his bed, and took his wayward route. 
And down by Simpson's* ^vheel'd the left 

about : 
(Whether impell'd by all-directing Fate 
To witness what I ai'ter shall narrate ; 
Or whether rapt in meditation high. 
He wander'd out he knew not where nor why), 
The drowsy J)ungeon-cloch,-f had number'd two. 
And Wallace tower f had sworn the fact was 

true : 
The tide-swoln Firth, with sullen-sounding 

roar, 
Thro* the still night dash'd hoarse along the 

shore : 
All else was hush'd as Nature's closed e'e ; 
The silent moon shone high o'er tow'r and tree : 
The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam, 
Crept, gently-crusting, o'er the glittering stream. 

When, lo ! on either hand the list'ning bard, 
The clanging sough of whistling wings he 

heard ; 
Two dusky forms dart thro' the midnight air. 
Swift as the Gos ^ drives on the wheeling hare ; 



• A noted tavern at the Auld Brir cnd. 

+ The two steeples. 

% The gos-bawk, or falcon, 



Ane on th' Auld Brig his airy shape upreari, 

The itlier flutters o'er the rising piers : 

Our warlike Rhymer instantly descry'd 

The Sprites that owre the Srigs of Ayr preside. 

(That Bards are second-sighted is nae joke, 

Au' ken the lingo of the sp'ritual folk ; 

F.iys, Spnnkies, Kelpies, a' they can explain them, 

And ev'n the vera deils they brawly ken them.) 

Auld Brig appear'd of ancient Pictish race. 

The very wrinkles Gothic in his face : 

He seem'd as he wi' Time had warstl'd lang, 

Yet toiighly doure, he bade an unco bang. 

New Brig was buskit in a braw new coat. 

That he, at London, frae ane Adams got ; 

In's hand five taper staves as smooth's a bead, 

V.'i' virls and whirlygigums at the head. 

The Goth was stalking round with anxious 

search. 
Spying the time-worn flaws in every arch ; 
It chanc'd his new-come neebor took his e'e, 
And e'en a vex'd an' angry heart had he ! 
Wi' thieveless sneer to see each modish mien, 
He, down the water, gies him thus guide'en->— 

AULD BRIG. 

I doubt na', frien', ye'll think ye're nae sheep- 
shank, 
Ance ye were streekit o'er frae bank to bank ! 
But gin ye be a brig as auld as me, 
Tho' faith that day I doubt ye'll never see ; 
There'll be, it" that day come, I'll wad a boddlc. 
Some fewer wbigmaleeries in your noddle. 

NEW BRIG. 

Auld Vandal, ye but show your little meosei 
Just much about it wi' your scanty sense ; 
Will your poor narrow foot-path of a street, 
Where twa wheel-barrows tremble when they 

meet, 
Your ruin'd formless bulk, o' stane an' lime, 
Compare wi' bonnie Brigs o* modern time ? 
There's men o' taste would tak' the Ducat 

stream, * 
Tho' they should cast the very sark and swim, 
Ere they would grate their feelings wi' the view 
Of sic an ugly Gothic hulk as you. 

AULD BRIG. 

Conceited gowk ! puff'd up wi' windy pride ! 
This monie a year I've stood the flood an' tide ; 
An' tho' wi' crazy eild I'm sair forfairn, 
I'll be a Brig when ye're a shapeless cairn ! 
As yet ye little ken about the matter. 
But twa-three v.-inters will inform ye better. 
When heavy, dark, continued, a'-day rains, 
Wi' deepening deluges o'crflow the plains ; 
V/hen from the hills where springs the brawl* 

iug Coil, 
Or stately Lugai-'s mossy fountains boil, 
Or where the Greenock winds his moorland 

course. 
Or haunted Garpal f draws his feeble source. 



* A noted ford, just above the Auld Brig. 
f The banks oi Garpal fVaUr is one of the few places 



\2 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Arous'd by blust'nng winds and spotting thowcs. 
In mony a torrent down his siia-broo rowcs ; 
While crashing ice, borne on the roaring speat, 
Sweeps dams, au' mills, an' brigs, a' to the 

gate • 
And from Ohnhuck* down to the Hutlon Jity,-f 
Auld At/r is just one lengthen'd tumbling sea ; 
Then down ye'll hurl, deil nor ye never i-ise ! 
And dash the gumlie jaups up to the pouring 

skies, 
A lesson sadly teaching, to your cost. 
That Architecture's noble art is lost ! 

NEW BRIG. 

Fine Architecture, trowth, I needs must say't 

o't! 
The L — d be thankit that we've tint the gate 

o't! 
Gaunt, ghastly, gaist-alluiiug cd luces. 
Hanging with threat'ning jut, like precipices ; 
O'er-arching, mouldy, gloom-inspiring coves, 
Supporting rools fantastic, stony groves ; 
Windows and tlooi's, in nameless sculpture 

drest. 
With order, symnu'try, or tasto niiblest ; 
Forms like some bedlam statuary's dream. 
The craz'd creations of misguided whim ; 
Forms might be worshij)p'd on the bended 

knee. 
And still the second ilrend ccinmand be free, 
Their likeness is not found on earth, in air, or 

sea. 
Mansions that would disgrace the building taste 
Of any m:isoii, reptile, biitl, or beast ; 
Fit only for a duitcd i\Fniiki?:h race. 
Or frosty mil ids foisw6rn the dear embrace. 
Or cuilii of later timea, wha held the notion 
That sullcu gloom v/us sterling true devotion ; 
Fancies that our guid Drugh denies protection. 
And soon may triey e>;piie, uvdjicst with re- 

Burrectibn ! 

AULiD Br.:c. 
O ye, my dear-remeiuber'd ancient yealiiigs, 

Were ye but here lo share my wounded feelings ! 

Ye worthy Provines, aa' r.iony a slaiiie, 

Whain the paths o* righ.teousnessdid toil aye ; 

Ye dainty Deacons, an ye douce Conveners, 

To whom our moderns are but causey- 
cleaners ; 

Ye godly Cuuiicils wha hac blest this town ; 

Ye godly .Brethren of the sacred gown, 

Wha meekly gae your hurdles to the smiters ; 

And (what would now be strange) ye godly 
Writers : 

A' ye douce folk I've borne aboon the broo, 

'Weie )e but here, what would ye say or do ! 

How would your spirits groan in deep vex- 
ation. 

To see each melancholy alteration ; 



in the West of .Scotland, where tliose faney-scarinE; be- 
ings, known by the name of G/mists, still continue 
pertinaciously to inhabit. 

• The soursc of the river Ayr. 

t A small landing-place above the large key. 



And agonizing, cur.so the time and place 

When ye begat the base, degenerate race ! 

Nae langer Rcv'rend Men, their country's ' 

glory, 
In plain ■ braid Scots hold forth a plain braid 

story ! 
Nae langer thrifty Citizens, an' douce, 
Meet owre a pint, or in the Council house : 
But staumrel, corky-headed, graceless Gentry, 
The herrymcnt and ruin of the country ; 
Men, three parts made by tailors and by bar- 
bers, 

Wha waste your well-hain'd gear on d d 

7tew Sri(;s and Harbours ! 

NEMT BRIG. 

Now baud you there ! for faith ye've said 

enough, 
And ir-uckle raair than ye can mak to through, 
As for yotir Priesthood, I shall say but little, 
Corbies and Chrijy are a shot right kittle : 
But, under favour o' your langer beard. 
Abuse o' IWagistrates might weel be spared : 
To liken them to your auld warld squad, 
I must needs say comparisons are odd. 
In Ayr, Wag-wits nae mair can hae a handle 
To mouth ' a Citizen,' a term o' scandal : 
Nae mair the Coimcil waddles down the 

street 
In all the pomp of ignorant conceit ; 
Men wha grew wise priggin' owre hops an' 

raisins. 
Or gather'd lib'ral views iu Bonds and Seisins. 
If haply Knowledge, on 'a random tramp. 
Had shored them with a glimmer of his lamp. 
And would to Commou-,'?ense, for once betrayed 

them, 
Plain dull Stupidity stept kindly iu to aid 

them. 



What farther clishmaclaver might been said, 
'\^^lat bloody wars, if Sprites had blood to 

sl;ed. 
No man can tell ; but all before their sight, 
A fairy train appear'd in order bright : 
Adowu the gljtt'ring stream they featly danced : 
Bright to the »moon their various dresses 

glanced : 
They footed o'er the wat'ry glass so neat, 
The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet : 
While arts of Minstrelsy among them rung. 
And soul-ennobling bards heroic ditties sung. 
O had JiPLauchlin,* thairm-inspiring sage, 
Been there to hear this heavenly band engage, 
When thro' his dear Strathspeys they boro 

with Highland rage ; 
Or when they struck old Scotia's melting airs. 
The lover's raptured joys or bleeding cares ; 
How would his Highland lug been uobkr fir'd. 
And even his matchless hand with finer touch 

inspir'd ! 



• A well known performer of Scottish miuic on the 
violin. 



POEMS. 



ts 



No guess could tell what instrament appear'd, 
But all the soul of Music's self was heard ; 
Harmonious concert rung in every part, 
While simple melody pour'd moving on the 

heart. 
The Genius of the stream in front appears, 
A venerable chief advanced in years ; 
His hoary head with water-lilies crown'd, 
His manly leg with garter tangle bound. 
Next came the loveliest pair in all the ring, 
Sweet Female Beauty hand in hand with 

Spring ; 
Then, crown'd with flo^'ry hay, came Rural 

Joy, 
And Summer, with his fervid-beaming eye : 
AJl-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn. 
Led yellow Autumn wreath'd with nodding 

com; 
Then Winter's time-bleached locks did hoary 

show. 
By Hospitality with cloudless brow ; 
Next foUow'd Courage with his martial stride. 
From where the Feal wild-woody coverts hide ; 
Benevolence, with mild benignant air, 
A female form, came from the tow'rs of Stair: 
Learning and Worth iu equal measures trode 
From simple Catrine, their long-lov'd abode : 
Last, white-rob'd Peace, crown'd with a ha/el 

wreath. 
To rustic Agriculture did bequeath 
The broken iron instruments of death : 
At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their kind- 
ling wrath. 



THE ORDINATION. 



tor sense they little owe to Frugal Heav'n— 
To please the Mob tliey hide the little giv'n. 



L 

Kilmarnock Wabsters, fidge an' claw, 

An' pour your crecshie nations ; 
An* ye wha leather rax au' draw. 

Of a' denominations. 
Swith to the Laigh Kirk, aiie an' a', 

An' there tak up your stations ; 
Then afF to Seglie's in a rav.-, 

An' pour divine libations 

For joy this day. 

n. 

Curst Common- sense, that imp o' liel!. 
Cam in wi' Maggie Lauder ;« 

But O aft made ht-r yell. 

An' R sair inisca'd Hlm- ; 

Tliis day, M' takes the flail, 

An' he's the bov will blaud her ! 



* Alluding to a seofTing baJLid which was made on 
•he admission of the late Itevej-end and worthy Mr. L. 
to the Laigh Kirk, 



He'U clap a shangan on her tail, 
An' set the bairns to daud her 

V/i' dirt this day. 

in. 

Mak haste an' turn king David owre, 

An' lilt wi' holy clangor ; 
O' double verse come gie us four. 

An' skirl up the Bangor : 
This day the Kirk kicks up a stoure, 

Nae mair the knaves shall wrang her, 
For heresy is in her power. 

And gloriously she'll whang her 

Wi* pith this day. 

IV. 

Come let a proper text be read, 

An' touch it afi" wi' vigour. 
How graceless Ham * leugh at his Dad, 

Which made Canaan a niger ; 
Or Phineasf drove the murdering blade, 

Wi' whore-abhorring rigour ; 
Or Zipporah, ^ the Ecaulding jade, 

Was like a bluidy tiger 

r the inn that day. 

V. 

There, try his mettle on the creed. 

An' bind him down wi' caution, 
That Stipend is a carnal weed. 

He taks but for the fashion ; 
An' gie him o'er the flock to feed. 

An' punish each transgression ; 
Especial, rams that cross the breed, 

Gie them sufficient threshin', 

Spare them nae day. 

VI. 

Now aidd Kilmarnock, cock thy tail. 

An' toss thy horns fu' canty ; 
Nae mair thou'lt rowt out-owTC the dale 

Because thy pasture's scanty j 
For lapfu's large o' gospel kail 

Shall fill thy crib in plenty, 
A a' runts o' grace, the pick and wale, 

No gi'eii by v.'ay o' dainty, 

But ilka day. 

VIL 
Nae mair by JBabel's streams we'll weep, 

To think upon Our Zion ; 
An' hing our fiddles up to sleep, 

Like baby-clouts a-dryin' ; 
Come, screw the pegs with tunefu' cheep, 

An' owre the thairms be tryin' ; 
Oh, rare ! to sec our elbucks wheep, 

An' a like lamb-tails flyin' 

Fu' fiist this day. 

VIIL 

Lang Patronage, wi' rod o' aim. 
Has shored the Kirk's tmdoin', 



* Genesis, ch. ix. vcr. 22. 
\ Numbers, ch. .ixv. ver. 8. 
j E.xcdus, ch.lv, ver. il!o< 



14 



BURNS' WORKS. 



At lately Fenwick, sair forfaim, 

Has proven to its ruin : 
Our Patron, honest man ! Glencairn, 

He saw mischief was brewin' ; 
An' like a Rodly elect bairn, 

He's wal'd us out a true anc, 

An' sound this dov 



Now R- 



IX. 

harangue nae niair, 



But steek your gab for ever ; 
Or try the wicked town of Ayr, 

For there they'll think you clever ; 
Or, nae reflection on your lear, 

Ye may commence a shaver ; 
Or to the Ntthertim repair, 

An' turn a carper weaver 

Aff hand this day. 



M- 



X. 

and you were just a mutch. 



We never had sic twa drones ; 
Auld Hornie did the Zaifjh Kirk watc'.i. 

Just like a winkin' baudrons : 
An' aye he catch'd the tither wretch. 

To fry them in his cauilrons : 
But now his honour maun detach, 

Vf'i a' his brimstone squadrons. 

Fast, fast, this day. 

xr. 

See, soc auld Orthodoxy's f.ies, 

She's swingein' thron2;h the city ; 
Hark how the nine-tail'd cat ihe plays ! 

I vow it's imco pretty : 
There, Learning, wi' his Greeki^li face, 

Grunts out some Latin ditty : 
An* Common-sense is gaun, she says, 

To -mak to Jamie lieatti'e 

Her plaint tins d.i\-. 

xn. 

But there's Morality himsel', 

Embracing a' opinions ; 
Hear, how he gies the tither yell. 

Between his twa companions ; 
See, how she peels the skin an' fell, 

As ane were pcelin' onions ! 
Now there — they're packed aff to hell, 

An' banish'd our dominions. 

Henceforth this day. 

XHL 
O happy day ! rejoice, rejoice ! 

Come bouse about the porter ! 
Morality's demure decoys 

Shall here nae raair find quarter : 
M' , R > are the boys. 

That heresy can torture : 
They'll gie her on a rape a hoyse, 

An* cowe her measure shorter 

By the head some day. 

XIV. 
Come bring the tither mutchkin in, 
An' here's for a conclusion. 



To every New Lipht * mother's son, 
From this time forth. Confusion : 

If mair they deave us wi' their din, 
Or Patronage intrusion, 

We'll li;j;Ut a spunk, an' ev'ry skin, 
We'll rin them afi" in fusion 

Like oil, some day. 



THE CALF. 

TO THE REV. MR. 

On Ills Text, Malachi, ch. iv. ver. 2. " And they 
sliall go forth, aud grow up, like calves of the staJl.' 

Right Siti I your text I'll prove it true, 

Though Heretics may laugh ; 
For iii'^fance ; thcr^-'s yoursel' just now, 

God knows, an unco Calf! 

An' should some Patron be so kind, 

A.s bless you wi' a kirk, 
I doubt iiac. Sir, but then we'll find, 

Ye' re still as great a Stirk. 

But, if the Lover's raptur'd hour 

Shall ever be your lot. 
Forbid it, evrry heavenly Power, 

You e'er should be a Stol ! 

Thd', when some kind, connubial Dear, 

Your l)ut-anc|-ben adorns, 
The lil;e h;is l);'en tint you may wear 

A u()l;lo licat! of liiirns. 

And in your !»<];, most reverend James, 

'i'o hear you roar and rowtc, 
Ft-.v men o' sense will doubt your claims 

To rank ainaug the mnvic. 

And when ye'je numbcr'd wi' the dead, 

Below a grassy hillock, i 
Wi* justice they may mark your head — 

' Here lies a famous Bvllock /' 



ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. 



O Prince! O Cliief ofmany throned Power's, 
Tliat led th' eiiibiillled Seraphim tov/ar Milton^ 



O THOU ! whatever title suit thee, 

Aidd Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, 
Wha in yon cavern grim an' sootie, 

Clos'd under hatches, 
Spairges about the brunstane cootie. 

To s(taud pool- wretches . 

Hear me, auld Hanpie, for a wee. 
An' let poor damned bodies be; 



• New r.iff/it is a cant phrase in the West of Scot, 
land, ("(ir those lelijjious opinions which Dr. Taylor of 
Norwich has defended so strenuously. 



POEMS. 



15 



I'm sufe sma' pleasure it Can gie, 
E'en to a deil, 

To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me, 

An' hear us squeel ! 

Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame ; 
Far kend and noted is thy name ; 
An* the' yon lowin' heugh's thy hame, 

Thou travels far ; 
An' faith ! thou's neither lag nor lame, 
Nor blate nor scaur. 

Whyles, ranging like a roarin' lion. 
For prey, a' holes and corners tryin' j 
Whyles on the strong-wing'd tempest flyin', 

Tirling the kirks ; 
Whyles, in the human bosom pryin', 

Unseen thou lurks. 

I've heard my reverend Grannie say, 
la lanely glens you like to stray ; 
Or where auld riiin'd castles gray, 

Nod to the moon, 
Ye firight the nightly wand'rer's way, 

Wi' eldritch croon. 

When twilight did my Graunie summon, 
To say her prayers, douce honest woman ! 
Aft yont the dyke she's heard you bummin' ! 

Wi' eerie drone ; 
Or, rustlin', thro' the boortries comin', 
Wi' heavy groan. 

Ae dreary, windy, winter night. 
The stars shot down wi' sklentin' light, 
Wi' you, mysel', I gat a fright, 

Ayont the lough ; 
Ye, like a rash-bush, stood in sight, 

Wi' waving sough. 

The cudgel in my nieve did shake. 
Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake. 
When wi' an eldritch stour, quaick — quaick— 

Amang the springs, 
Awa ye squatter'd, like a drake. 

On whistling wings. 

Let Warlocks grim, an' wither'd hags, 
Tell bow wi' you on ragweed nags, 
They skim the muii's, and dizzy crags, 

Wi' wicked speed ; 
And in kirk-yards renew their leagues, 

Owre howkit dead. 

Thence countra wives, wi' toil an' pain, 
May plunge an* plunge the kirn in vain ; 
For, oh ! the yellow treasure's ta'en 

By witching skill ; 
An' dawtit, twal-pint Hawkie's gane 

As yell's the Bill. 

Thence mystic knots mak great abuse. 
On young Guidmen, fond, keen, an' crouse ; 
When the best wark-lume i' the house. 
By cantrip wit, 



Is instant made no Worth a louse, 
Just at the bit. 

■\Vhen thowes dissolve the snawy hoord, 
An' float thejinglin' icy-boord. 
Then Water-kelpies haunt the foord. 

By your direction, 
An' nighted Trav'llers are allured 

To their destruction. 

An' aft your moss-traversing Spunkies 
Decoy the wight that late and drunk is ; 
The bleezin', curst, mischievous monkeys 

Delude his eyes, 
Till in some miry slough he sunk is, 

Ne'er mair to rise. 

When Masons^ mystic word an' ffrip. 
In storms an' tempests raise you up. 
Some cock or cat your rage maun stop. 

Or, strange to tell ! 
The youngest Brother ye wad whip 

Aff straught to hell ! 

Lang syne, in Eden's bonnie yard, 
When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd. 
An' all the soul of love they shar'd. 

The raptur'd hour, 
Sweet on the fragrant flowery swaird 

In shady bower : 

Then you, ye auld, snic-drawing dog ! ■ 
Ye came to Paradise incog. 
An' played on man a cursed brogue, 

(Black be your fa' !) 
An' gied the infant world a shog, 

'Maist ruined a'. 

D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz, 
Wi' reekit duds, and rcestit gizz. 
Ye did present your smoutie phiz 

'Mang better folk, 
An' sklented on the man of Uz 

Your spitefu' joke ? 

An' how ye gat him i' your thrall, 
An' brak him out o* house an' hall. 
While scabs and blotches did him gall, 

Wi' bitter claw. 
An' lowsed his ill tongucd wicked Scawl, 

Was warst ava ? 

But a' your doings to rehearse. 
Your wily snares an' fechtin' tierce, 
Sin' that day Michael * did you pierce, 

Down to this time. 
Wad ding a Lallan tongue, or Erse, 

lu prose or rhyme. 

An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin* 
A certain Bardie's rantin', drinkin', 
Some luckless hour will send him linkin', 
To your black pit j 



Vide Milton, book ■¥!. 



It 



BURNS' WORKS. 



But, faith ! he'll turn a corner, jinltin', 
And clieat you yet. 

But, fare ye woel, auld Nichie-len! 
O wad yc tak a thought and men' ! 
Ye aihlins might — I diuna ken- — 

■ Siill li;ie a stake — 
I'm wae to think upon yon den, 

Even for your sake ! 



DEATH AND DYING WORDS 
ov 

I^OOR MAI LIE, 

THE AUtllOR'S ON'LY PET YOV/E. 
AN UNCO MOURNFU' TALE. 

As Mailie, ail' her luniijs thc;.;!;'.-..--, 
Were ae day nihbHnc; on tic to'li-".'. 
Upon her elont slle coost a hitch. 
An' owio slie warsled in the ditch ;- 
There, gwanina:, dyitig:,-she did ],■, 
When Hut]/i(X^ hit cause doytin by. 

Wi' s;lovi'yin' oca, and lifted han's, 
Poor Hughoc like a statue Stan's : 
He saw her days wei'e r.eai'-hand ontied, 
But, wae's my heart 1 ha could na mend It ! 
He gaped wide, but naethiug spal: ! 
At length poor jMallie silence brak. 

' O thou, whase lamentable face 
Appears to mourn my waefu' case ! 
My dying words attentive hear, 
An' bear them to my Master dear. 

' Tell him, if e'er ajain he keep 
As muckle gear as buy a sheep, 
O, bid him never tie them maiv 
Wi' wicked strings o' hemp or liair ! 
But ca' them out to park or hill. 
An' let them wander at their \vi;l : 
So may his flock inctcase, an' grow 
To scores o' lambs, an' paclts o' v.oo' ! 

' Tell him, he was a ma-^ter kin', 
An' aye was guid to nie an' mine : 
An' now my dying charge I gie Inm, 
My helpless lambs I trust them wi' him. 

' O bid him save their harmless lives, 
Frae dogs, an' tods, an' butchers' knives ! 
But gie them guid cow milk their fill, 
Till they be fit to feud themsel' ; 
An' tent them duly, e'en an' morn, 
Wi' teats o' hay an' rips" o' corn. 



' An' may they never learn the gaets 
Of ither vile, wanrestfu' pets I 
To slink thro* slaps, an' reave an' steal, 
At stacks o' pease, or stocks o* kail. 
So may they, like their great forbears, 
For mony a year come thro* the sheers : 
So wives will gie them bits o' bread, , 
An' bairns greet for them when they're ,deaj. 

' My poor toop-lamh, my son an' heir, 

bid him breed him up wi' care ! 
An' if he live to be a beast. 

To pit some havins in his breast ! 
An' warn him, what I winna name, 
To stay content wi' yowes at hanie ; , ;. 
An' no to rin an' wear his cloots. 
Like ither menseless, graceless, brutes, 

' An' neist my yowie, silly thing, 
Guid keep thee frae a tether stricg ■ 
O, may tlicu ne'er forgather m|> 
Wi' ony blastit moorland toop ; , 
Hut aye keep mind to moop an' mell 
AVi' sheep o' credit like thysel' ! 

' PlvH now, my bairns, wi' my last breath, 

1 lea'e my blessin' wi' yon baith ; 

An' when you think upo' your .mither, 
Mind to be kin' to ane anithfer." 

' Now, honest Iliinliac, dinna fail 
To tell my master a' my tale ; 
An' bid him burn this cursed tether. 
An', for thy pains, thou'se get my blether.' 

This said, poor ?rIaiUe tui'u'd her head, 
A.ud closed her ecu amausr the dead. 



♦ A neebor herd-callan. 



POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY 

Lament in rhyme, lament in prose, 
Wi' saut tears trickling down youi; niise ; 
Our bardie's fate is at a close, 

Past a' remead ; 
The last sad cape-stane o' his woes ; 

Poor Mailie's dead ! 

It's no the lo)<s o' wail's gear. 
That could sae bitter draw the tear, 
Or mak our bardie, dowie, wear 

The mourning weed : 
He's lost a friend and neebor dear, 

In Mailie dead. 

Thro' a' the town she trotted by liim ; 
A lang half- mile she could descry him ; 
Wi' kindly bleat, when she did spy him. 
She ran wi' speed ; 
A friend mair faith fu' ne'er cam nigh him. 
Than Mailie dead. 

I wat she was a sheep o' sense, 
An' could behave hersel' wi' mense : 
I'll say't, she never brak a fsnce, 

Thro' thievish greed, 



POEMS. 



17 



Our bardie, laaely,' keeps the spenca 

Sia' Mailie's dead. 

Or, if he wanders up ttie howe, 
Her living image in her yowe, 
Comes bleating to him owre the knowe, 

For bits o' bread j 
An* down the briny pearls rowe 

For Mailie dead. 

She was nae get o' moorland tips, 
Wi' tawted ket, an* haiiy hips: 
For her forbears were brought in ship 

Frae yont the Tweed ! 
A bonnier ^eesA ne'er cross'd the clips 

Than Mailie dead. 

Wae worth the man wha first did shape 
That vile, wanchancie thing — a rape ! 
It maks guid fellows girn an' gape, 

Wi' chokin' dread ; 
An' Sobin's bonnet wave wi' crape. 

For Mailie dead. 

O, a' ye bards on bonnle Doon ! 
An' wha on Ayr your chaunters tune ! 
Come, join the melancholious croon 

O' Robin's reed ! 
His hqart will never get abooa 

His Mailie dead. 



TO J. S- 



Friendship ! mysterious cement of the soul ! 
Sweet'ner of life, and solder of society ! 
I owe thee mucii ! Blair. 



Dkar S- 



-, the sleest, paukie thief, 



That e'er attempted stealth or rief, 
Ye surely hae some warlock-breef 

Owre human hearts ; 
For ne'er i} bosom yet was prief 

Against your arts. 

For ine, I swear by sun an' moon, 
And every star that blinks aboon, 
Ye'vc cost me twenty jjair o' shoon, 

Just gaun to see you : 
And every ither pair that's done, * 

Mair taen I'm wi' you. 

That aulJ capricious carlin. Nature, 
To mak amends for scrimpit stature, 
She's turn'd you aflf, a human creature 
On her first plan, 
And in her freaks, on every feature, 

She's wrote, the Man, 

Just now I've taen the fit o' rhyme. 
My barmie noddle's working prime. 
My fancy yerkit up sublime 

Wi' hasty sumtnon ; 



Hae ye a leisure mo^)ent^|^ time' 

16 hear what's comin' ? ' 

Some rhyme a neebor's name to lash ; 
Some rhyme (vain thought !^ for needfu' cash, 
Some rhyme to court the countra clash. 

An' raise a din ; 
For me an aim I never fash ; 

I rhyme for fun. 

The star that rules my luckless lot. 
Has fated nie the russet coat. 
An' damned my fortune to the groat : 

But in requit. 
Has bless'd me wi' a random shot 

O' countra wit. 

This while my notion's taen a sklent, 
To try my fate in guid black prent ,- 
But still the mair I'm that way bent, 

Something cries ' Hoolie i 
I red you, honest man, tak tent ! 

Ye'U shaw your folly. 

' There's ither poets, much your betters. 
Far seen in Greek, deep men o' letters, 
Hae thought they had ensured their debtors, 

A' future ages ; 
Now moths deform in shapeless tetters, 

Their unknown pages. 

Then fareweel hopes o' laurel-boughs, 
To garland my poetic brows ! 
Henceforth I'll rove where busy ploughs 

Are «'histling thrang. 
An teach the lanyly heights au' howes 
xJy rustic sang. 

I'll wander ou, with teutless heed 
How never-halting moments speed, 
Till fate shall snap the brittle thread ; 

Then, all unknown, 
I'll lay me.Vv'ith th' inglorious dead. 

Forgot and gone ! 

But why o' death begin a tale ? 
Just now we're living, sound an' hale. 
Then top and maintop crowd the sail. 

Heave care o'er side : 
And large, before eiyoymeiit's gale, 

Let's tak' the tide. 

This life, sac fur's I understand. 
Is a' enchanted fairy land. 
Where pleasure is the magic wand, 

That, wielded right, 
Maks hours like minutes, hand, in hand. 

Dance by fu' light. 

The magic-wand then let us wield ; 
For ance that tive-an'-forty's speel'd. 
See crazy, weary, joyless eild, 

Wi' wrinkled face, 

Comes hostiu', hirplin', owre the field, 

Wi' crecpin' pace. 



23 



la 



BURNS' WORKS. 



When ance itfe^i ddi/ (\<imt flt&f the gloamln', 
Tiieo farewecl vacant careless roatnin' ; 
Ab' fareweel cheerfu' tankards foamin', 

An' (ocial Hoisd ; 
An' fareweel dear deluding womaitf 

The joy of joys ! 

O Life ! how pleasant in thy morning, 
Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning ! 
Cold-pausing Caution's lesson scorning, 

We frisk away, 
Like school-boys, at the expected warning, 

To joy and play. 

We wander there, we wander here, 
We eye the rose upon the brier. 
Unmindful that the thorn is near, 

Amang the leaves : 
And though the puny wound appear, 

Short while it grieves. 

Some, lucky, find a flowery spat, 
For which they never toiled nor swat. 
They drink the sweet and eat the fat, 

But care or pain ; 
And haply eye the barren hut 

With high disdain. 

With steady aim, some Fortune chase ; 
Keen hope does every sinew brace : 
Thro' fair, thro' foul, they urge the race, 

An seize the prey : 
Then cannie, in some cozie place. 

They close the day. 

An' others, like your humble servan'. 
Poor wights ! nae rules nor roads observin' ; 
To right or left, eternal swervin', 

They zig-zag on ; 
Till curst wi' age, obscure an' starvin'. 

They aften groan. 

Alas ! what bitter toil an' straining— 
But truce with peevish poor complaining ! 
la Fortune's fickle Luna waning ? 

E'en let h'-r gang ! 
Beneath what light she has remaining. 

Let's sing our sang. 

My pen I here fling to the door. 
And kneel, ' Ye pow'rs !' and warm implore, 
' Tho' I should wander terra o'er, 

Id all her climes, 
Grant me but this, I ask no more. 

Aye rowth o' rhymes. 

' Gie dreeping roasts to countra lairds, 
Till icicles hing frae their beards : 
Oie fine braw claes to fine life-guards. 

An' maids of honour ; 
An' yill an' whisky gie to cairds. 

Until they sconner. 

' A title, Dempster merits it ; 
A ^arttr gie to Willie Pitt ,• 



Gie wealth td lome be-ledgerM elt* 
In cent, per ceat 

But give me real, sterling wit, 

An' I'm coute&t. 

* Wliile ye are pleased to keep me htia, 
I'll sit down o'er my scanty meal, 
Be't toater-brose or muslin-kail, 

Wi' cheerfu' hce. 
As lang's the muses dinna fail 

To say the grace.' 

An anrious e'e I never throws 
Behiot my lug, or by my nose ; 
I jouk beneath misfortune's blows. 

As weel's I may : . 
Sworn foe to sorrow, care, an' prose, 

I rhyme away. 

O ye douce folk, that live by rule. 
Grave, tideless-blooded, calm and cool, 
Compar'd wi' you — O fool ! fool ! fool ! 

How much unlike ! 
Your hearts are just a standing pool. 

Your lives, a dyke ! 

' Nae hair-brain'd sentimental traces 
In your unlettur'd nameless faces ; 
In arioso trills and graces 

Ye never stray, 
But gratdsntno, solemn basses 

Ye hum away. 

Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye 're unse, 
Nae ferly tho' ye do despise 
The hairum-scairum, ram-stam boys. 

The rattlin' squad : 
I see you upward cast your eyes — J 

— Ye ken the road.—* 

Whilst I — ^but I shall baud me there— 
Wi' you I'll scarce gang ony where — 
Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair. 

But quat my sang. 
Content wi' you to mak a pair, 

Whare'er I gang. 



A DREAM. 



Thoughts, words, and deeds, the statute blames with 

reason ; 
But surely dreams were ne'er indicted treason. 



[On reading, in the public papers, the Laureates Ode, 
with the other parade of June 4, 1786, the author 
was no sooner dropt asleep, than he imagined him- 
self transported to the birth-day levee ; and in his 
dreaming fancy, made the following Addraa,'] 

I. 
Gcib-mornin' to your Majesty f 

May heaven augment your blisses. 
On everj' new birth-day ye see, 

A humble poet wishes ! 
My hardship here, at your levee, 

On sic a day as this is, 



POEMS. 



U 8Urt aa uiidoutk wgU to see, 

Among the birthwday dresses 

Sae fine this day^ 

II. 

1 see ye're complimented thrang, 

By mony a lord an' lady, 
' God save the King !' 's a cuckoo sang 

That's unco easy said aye ; 
The poets, too, a venal gang, 

Wi' rhymes weel turn'd an' ready, 
Wad gar you trow ye ne'er do wrang, 

But aye uoeiTing steady. 

On sic a day. 

III. 

For me ! before a monarch's face, 

Ev'n there I winna flatter ; 
For neither pension, post, nor place. 

Am I your humble debtor : 
So nae reflection on i/oiir grace, 

Your kingship to bespatter ; 
There's monie waur been o' the race. 

An' aiblins ane been better 

Than you this day. 

IV. 
'Tis very true, my sov'reign king. 

My skill may weel be doubted : 
But facts are chiels that winna ding, 

An' downa be disputed : 
Your royal nest, beneath your wing. 

Is e'en right reft an' clouted. 
An' now the third part o' the string, 

An' less, will gang about it 

Than did ae dav. 



Far be't frae me that I aspire 

To blame your legislation. 
Or say, ye wisdom «'ant, or fire, 

To rule this mighty nation ! 
But, faith! I muckle' doubt, my Sire, 

Ye've tiusted ministration 
To chaps, wha, in a barn or byre, 

Wad better fill'd their station 

Than courts yon day. 

VI. 
An' now ye've gien auld Britain peace. 

Her broken shins to piaister ; 
Your sair taxation does her fleece, i 

Till she has scarce a tester ; 
for me, thank God, my life's a lease, 

Nae bargain wearing fister, 
Or, faith ! I fear, that wi' the geese, 

I shortly boost to pasture 

I' the craft some day, 

VII. 
I'm no mistrusting Willie Pitt 

When taxes he enlarges, 
(An' Will's a true guid fallow's get, 

A name not envy spairges), 

That he intends to pay your debt, 

An' lessen a' your charges ; 



10 



But, God-sake ! let hifsttvtng j/ti 
Abridge your bnnnie barges 

An* boats this day. 

VIII. 

Adieu, my Liege ! may freedom geek 

Beneath your high protection ; 
An' may ye rax Corruption's neck. 

An' gie her for dissection ! 
But since I'm here, I'll no neglect. 

In loyal, true affection. 
To pay your Queen, with due respect, 

IMy fealty an' subjection 

This great birth-day. 

. IX. 

Hail, Majesty ! Most Excellent ! 

While nobles strive to please ye. 
Will ye accept a compliment 

A simple poet gies ye ? 
Thae bonnie bairnrime, Heav'n has lent, 

Still higher may they heeze ye. 
In bliss, till fate some day is sent, 

For ever to release ye 

Frae care that day. 

X. 

For you, young potentate o' Wales, 

I tell your Highness fairly, 
Down Pleasure's stream, wi' swelling saiiS, 

I'm tauld ye're driving rarely ; 
But some day ye may gnaw your nails, 

An' curse your folly sairly, 
That e'er ye brak Diana's pales, 

Or rattled dice wi' Charlie, 

By night or day. 

XI. 

Yet aft a ragged cowte'a been known 

To mak a noble aiver : 
So, ye may doucely fill a throne. 

For a' their clish-ma-claver : 
There, him • at Agincourt wha shone. 

Few better were or braver ; 
An' yet wi' funny queer Sir John,-f 

He was an unco shaver 

For monie a day 

XII. 
For you, right rev rend Osnahrug, 

Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter, 
Altho' a ribbon at your lug 

Wad been a dress completer : 
.\s ye disown yon paughty dog 

That bears the keys of Peter, 
Then, swith ! an' get a wife to hug. 

Or, trouth, ye'll stain the mitre 

Some luckless day. 

XIII. 
Young royal Tarry Breeks, I Icam, 
Ye've lately come athwart her; 



• Kinc Henrv V. 

t Sir John iaktaff", vidt Shakespeare, 



20 



BURNS' WORKS. 



A glorious galley* stem an stern, 
Weel rifrg'd for Venus' barter ; 

But first hang out, that she'll discern 
Your hymeneal charter. 

Then heave aboard your grapple airn, 
An' large upo' her quarter, 

Come full that day. 

XIV. 
Ye, lastly, bonnie blossoms a', 

Ye royal las5es dainty, 
Heav'n mak you guid as weel as braw, 

An' gie you lads a-plenty : 
But sneer nae Uritlsh hoys awa', 

For kings are unco scant aye; 
An' German gentles are but sma', 

They're better just than wa7it aye 
On onie day. 

XV. 

God bless you a' ! consider now, 

Ye're unco muckle dautet ; 
But, ere the course o' life be thro', 

It may be bitter sautet ; 
An' I hue seen their coggie fou, 

That yet hae tarrow't at it ; 
But or the day was done, I troW, 

The lag'gen they hae clautet 

Fu' clean that dai 



THE VISION. 

EUAN I'IRST.-|- 

The sun had closed the winter day. 
The curlers quat their roaring play. 
An hunger'd maukin ta'en her way 

To kail-yards greer 
While faithless snaws ilk step betray 

Whare she has be*i 

The thresher's v/aasy flingin-tne 
The lee-lang day had tired me : 
And whan the day had closed his e'e- 

Far i' the west, 
Ben i' the spcnce, right pensivelie, 

I gaed to rest. 

There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek, 
I sat and ey'd the spewing reek, 
That fiU'd wi' hoast-provoking smeek, 

The auld clay biggin" ^ 
An' heard the restless rattons squeak 

About the riggin'. 

All in this niottie, misty clime, « 
I backward mus'd on wasted time, 
How I had spent my youthfu' prime, 

An' done nae-thing. 



• Alluding to the newspaper account of, a cwtain 
royal tailor's amour. 

t Duan, a term of Ossian's for the different divisions 
of n digressive poem. See hit Cath'Loda, VOl. 'i. Of 

X'Pheiion's tianslation. 



But sti-ingln' blether^t uj) in rkynie 

For fools to sing. 

Had 1 to guid ailvicc but harkit, 
I might, by this, hue led a market, 
Or strutted in a bank and clarkit 

!My ca'^h account : 
While here, half-marl, half-fed, half-sarkf 

Is a' th' amount. 

I started, niutt'ring, blockhead! c, /' 
And heav'd on his;h my waukit ]<?ri, 
To swear by a' yon starry rcjf, 

Or sprne ray'.i a^.b , 
That I, henceforth, wok Id ue r/i^./ie-pra^*/' 

Till iny lasi breath — 

Wlien click ! toe stciuc th« sneck did dr>Y 
An' jee ! the dooi g<-.ed to the wa' ; 
An' by my ing'--;-' <wt I saw. 

Now bleezin bright, 
A tight Di>.i«.di^h Hizzie braw. 

Come full in sight. 

Ys nw/- p-i doubt, I held my whisht 
Tta i<ifr.<it aith half-form'd was crush' t ; 
I g^dirr''. aa eerie's I'd been dusht 

In some wild glen ; 
^h.v\ ».we2t, like modest worth, she blush't, 

And stepped ben. 

Green, slender, leaf-clad holly-houghs, 
Were twisted gracefu' round her brows ; 
I took her for some Scottish Muse, 

By that same token ; 
An' come to stop those reckless vows, 

Would soon been broken. 

A ' hair-brain'd, sentimental trace' 
Was strongly marked in her face ; 
A wildly-witty, rustic grace 

Shone full upon her ; 
Her eye, ev'n turn'd on empty space, 

Beam'd kqen with honour 

Down flow'd her robe, a tartan sheen, 
Till half a leg was scrimply seen ; 
And such a leg ! my bonnie Jean 

Could only pear it ; 
Sae atraught, sae taper, tight, and clean, 

Nanc else cam near it. 

Her mantle large, of greenish hue. 
My gazing wonder chiefly drew ; 
Deep lights and shades, bold-raingling, threw 

A lustre grand ; 
And seem'd to my astonish'd view, 

A well known land. 

Here, rivers in the sea were lost : 
There, mountains to the skies were tost : 
Here, ttmabliog billows mark'd the coast, 

With surging foam ; 
There) distant shone Art's lofty boast, 

Th« lordl/ dom«« 



POEMS. 



21 



Here Dnon pour'd down his iki-fetch'd floods ; 
There, well-fed Incine stately thuds : 
Auld hermit Ai/r slaw thiV liis wi-.ods. 

On to the sliorc ; 
And niai;y a lesser torrent scuds, 

With sivniiii;^ roar. 

Low, i:i a s-indy valley spre.ir!. 
An ancient hnrovrih rear'd her I'.o.iil ; 
Still, as in .Scottish story read. 

.She boiists a r,u o, 
To every nobler virtue bred, 

And polish'd graee. 

By s(at;'ly tow'r or palace lair, 
Or ruins pendent in the air, 
Bold stems of heroes, here ami tiu;.\ 

I could discern ; 
Some seem'd to auisc, some seetu'd to dare, 

V/ith feature stern. 

My heait did glowing transport feci. 
To see a race - heroic wheel. 
And brandish round the deep-dy'd steel 

In sturdy blows ; • 
While bark-recoiling seein'd to leol 

Their suthron foes. 

His Country's Saviour,! mark i.i'.ii well ! 
Bold Richardtoii s \ heroic sw;;l ; 
The chief on Sarh § who glorious full. 

In high command ; 
And he whom ruthless fates expel 

Kis native land. 

There, where a sceptred Picfish shade ]| 
Stalk'd round his ashes lowly laid, 
I mark'd a martial race pomtray'd 

In colours strong ; 
Bold, soldier-featur'd, undisraay'd 

They strode aloii;;^. 

Thro' many a wild, romantic grove,^ 
Near many a hermit-fancy 'd cove, 
(Fit haunts for friendship or for love 

In musing mood), 
An aged Judge, I saw hira rove, 

Dispensing good. 

With deep-struck reverential awe,** 
The learned sire and son I saw, 
To Nature's God and Nature's law 

Thev ?ave their lore. 



Thisj all its source and end to draw, 
That, to adore. 

Srijflon's brave ward * I well could spy, 
Beneath old Scotia's smiling eye; 
Who call'd on Fame, low standing by, 

To hand him on. 
Where many a patriot-name on high. 

And hero shone. 

DUAN SECOND. 

With mus:ng-deep, astonish 'd stare, 
I view'd the heav'nly-seemiagyajV ; 
A whisp'ring throb did witness bear, 

Of kindred sweet. 
When with an elder sister's air 

She did me greet. 

' All hail ! my own inspired bard I 
Ih ine thy native muse regard ; 
Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard. 

Thus poorly low, 
I come, to give thee such reward 

As we bestow. 

' Know, the great genius of this land 
K;i,s many a light, aerial band, 
Who, all beneath his high command, 

Harmoniously, 
As arts or arms they understand, 

Their labours ply. 

' Tiiey Scotia's race among them share ; 
Some hre the soldier on to dare ; 
Some rouse the patriot up to bare 

Corruption's heart ; 
Some teach the bard, a darling care, 

The tuneful art. 

' '3Iong swelling floods of reeking gore. 
They, ardent, kindling spirits pour ; 
Or, 'mid the venal senate-'s roar, 

They, sightless, stand, 
To mend the honest patriot-lore. 

And grace the hand. 

' And when the bard, or hoary sage. 
Charm or instruct the future age, 
They bind the wild poetic rage 

In energy. 
Or point the inconclusive page 

Full on the eye. 



• The Wallaces. + William V,",illace. 

X Adam Wallace, of Richardton, cousin to the im- 
mortal preserver of Scottish independence, ir T-» v» 1- •, 

\ Wallace. Laird of Craiqie, « ho w.ns scccnd in pom • j nmce: JJempsier s aeal-mspired tongue ; 
mand, under Douglas Earl of Orniond, at the fanious ; Hence sweet harmonious Deattie suna; 
battleon the banks of. Sark. fought fliiHO 1! 18. That jr- .i Jii;,,sfrHl hv<! •" 

glorious victory was principally owing to ihe judicious!^ ., ,, , ■i>i'"»"(.i lajs , 

conduct and intrepid valour of the gallant Laird of Or tore, with noble afdour stung, 
Craigic, who died of his wounds after the actio;i. 

II Coilus, King of the Picts, from whom the districr 
of Kyle is said to take its name, lies buried, as tradi- 
tion says, near the family-seat of the Montgomeries of 
CoiUfield, where his burial-place is still shown. 

^ Barskimming, the seat ot tl»e late Lord Justice 
Clerk. 

•• Catrine, the seat of the late Doctor, and present 
Professor Stewart. • Cobncl Fullarton, 



' Hence Fullarton, the bravo and young ; 



Tiie sceptic s bays. 

' To lower orders arc assign'd 
The humbler ranks of human-kind. 



22 



BURNS' WORKS. 



rhe rustic Bard, the lab'ring Hind, 

The Artisan ; 
All choose, as various they're inclin'd. 

The various man. 

' When yellow waves the heavy grain, 
The threat'ning storm some strongly reiu; 
Some teach to meliorate the plain, 

With tillage skill ; 
And some instruct the shepheid-train. 

Blithe o'er the hill. 

' Some hint the lover's harmless wile ; 
Some grace the maiden's artless smile ; 
Some soothe the lab'rer's weary toil, 

For humlile gains, 
And make his cottage scenes beguile 

His cares and pains. 

' Some bounded to a district-space, 
Explore at large man's infant race. 
To mark the embryotic trace 

Of rustic Sard ; 
And careful note each op'ning grace, 

A guide and guard. 

' Of these am I — Coila my name ; 
And this district as mine I claim. 
Where once the Campbells, chiefs of fame, 

Held ruling pow'r : 
I mark'd thy embryo tuneful flame. 

Thy natal hour. 

' With future hope, I oft would gaze. 
Fond on thy little early ways, 
Thy rudely caroU'd, chiming phrase. 

In uncouth rhymes, 
Fired at the simple, artless lays 

Of other times. 

' I saw thee seek the sounding shore. 
Delighted with the dashing roar ; 
Or when the north his fleecy store 

Drove thro' the sky, 
I saw grim Nature's visage hoar 

Struck thy young eye. 

' Or when the deep-green mantled earth 
W»rm cherish'd ev'ry flow'ret's birth, 
And joy and music pouring forth 

In ev'ry grove, 
I saw thee eye the general mirth 

With boundless love. 

' When ripen'd fields, and azure skies, 
Call'd forth the reaper's rustling noise, 
I taw thee leave their ev'ning joys. 

And lonely stalk. 
To vent thy bosom's swelling rise 

In pensive walk. 

' ' When yonthful love, warm-blushing, strong, 
Keen-shivering shot thy nerves along, 
Those accents, grateful to thy tongue, 
Th* adored iVame, 



I taught thcc how tci pour in song, 

To soothe thy flame. 

' I saw thy pulse's maddening play, 
Wild send thee Pleasure's devious way. 
Misled by Fancy's meteor ray. 

By Passion driven ; 
But yet the lir/ht that led astray 

Was lir;ht from heaven. 

' I taught thv manners-painting strains. 
The loves, the ways of simple swains 
Till now, o'er all my wide domains 

Tliy fame extends ; 
And sonic, the pridi' of Coila's plains, 

Become thy friends. 

' Thou canst not learn, nor can I show. 
To paint with Thomson's landscape glow ; 
Or wake the bosom-melting throe, 

With Slienstoyie^s art ; 
Or pour, with Grcnj, the moving flow 

Warm on the heart. 

' Yet all beneath th' unrivall'd rose. 
The lowly daisy sweetly blows : 
Tho' large the forest's monarch throws 

His army shade. 
Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows, 
Adown the glade. 

' Then never murniur nor repine ; 
Strive in thy humble sphere to shine ; 
And trust me, not Potosi's mine, 

Nor king's regard. 
Can give a bliss o'ermatching thine, 

A rustic Bard. 

' To give my counsels all in one. 
Thy tuneful flame still careful fan ; 
Preserve the dignity of Man, 

With soul erect ; 
And trust the Universal plan 

Will all protect. 

' And wear thou this,'-—%hs solemn said, 
And bound the Holly round ray head ; 
The polish'd leaves, and berries red. 

Did rustling play ; 
And, like a passing thought, she fled 

In light away. 



ADDRESS TO THE UNCOGUID 

OR THB 

RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS. 



My son, these maxims make a rule. 
And lump them aye thegither [ 

The Rigid Rigtiteoui is a fool, 
Tlve Rigid ffr%te anitbei j ,.. 



POEMS. 



S3 



The cleanest com that ifet was dight 

May hae some py le* o' cafl" in ; 
Sae ne'er a fellow-creature slight 

For random fits o' dafBn.— 

Solomon.— E.cdei. ch. vli. yer. 16. 



O YE wha are sae guid yoursel, 

Sae pious an' sae holy, 
Ye've nought to do but mark and tell 

Your neebour's fauts and folly ! 
Whase life is like a weel gaun mill, 

Supply'd wi' store o* water, 
The heapit happer's ebbing still. 

And still the clap plays clatter. 

II. 
Hear me, ye venerable core, 

As counsel for poor mortals. 
That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door 

For glaikit Folly's portals ; 
I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes, 

Would here propone defences, 
Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes, 

Their failings and mischances. 

III. 
Ye see your state wi' theirs compared, 

An' shudder at the niffer, 
But cast a moment's fair regard. 

What maks the mighty differ ? 
Discount what scant occasion gave. 

That purity ye pride in. 
An* (what's aft mair than a' the lave) 

Your better art o' hiding. 

IV. 

Think, when your castigated pulse 

Gies now and then a wallop. 
What ragings must his veins convulse. 

That still eternal gallop : 
Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail. 

Right on ye scud your sea-way ; 
But in the teeth o' baith to sail, 

It maks an xmco lee-way. 



See social life and glee sit down, 

All joyous and unthinking. 
Till, quite transmogrified, they're grown 

Debauchery and drinking : 
O would they stay to calculate 

Th' eternal consequences ; 
Or your more dreaded hell to state. 

Damnation of expenses ! 

VI. 
Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames, 

Ty'd up in godly laces. 
Before ye gie poor frailty names, 

Suppose a change o' cases ; 
A dear lov'd lad, convenience snug, 

A treacherous inciinatipn — 
But, let me whisper i' your lug, 

Ye're aiblios nae temptation. 



VII. 

Then gently scan your brother man, 

Still gentler sister woman ; 
Tho' they may gang a kennia wrong, 

To step aside is human : 
One point must still be greatly dark, 

The moving why they do it ; 
And just as lamely can ye mark, 

How far perhaps they rue it. 

VIII. 
Who made the heart, 'tis He alone 

Decidedly can try us, 
He knows e&ch chord — its various tone, 

Each spring — its various bias : 
Then at the balance let's be mate^ 

We never can adjust it ; 
What's done we partly may compute, 

But know not what's resisted. 



TAM SAMSON'S* ELEGY. 



An honest man's the noblest work of God.— jPojm. 



Has auld K — seen the Deil ! 

Or great M' f thrawn his heel ? 

Or R ^ again grown weel 

To preach an' read ? 
' Na, waur than a' !' cries ilka chiel, 

* Tarn Sainton's dead ! 

K lang may grunt an* grane. 

An* sigh, an* sab, an' greet her lane. 

An' deed her bairns, man, wife, and wean. 

In mourning weed ; 
To death, she's dearly paid the kane. 

Tarn Samson's dead 

The brethren of the mystic level. 
May hing their head in woefu' bevel, 
While by their nose the tears will revel, 

Like ony bead ! 
Death's gien the lodge an unco devel. 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 

When winter muffles up his cloak, 
And binds the mire like a rock ; 
When to the lochs the curlers flock, 

Wi* gleesome speed ; 
Wha will they station at the cock ? 

Tarn Samson*s dead ! 

He was the king o' a' the core. 
To guard, or draw, or wick a bore, 



• When this worthy old sportsman went out Itot 
muirfowl season, he supposed it was to be, in Ossian's 
phrase, ' the last of his fields !' and expressed an ar- 
dent wish to die and be buried in the muirs. On this 
hint the author composed his elegy and epitaph. 

t A certain preacher, a great favourite with the mil> 
lion, yide the Ordination, Stanza II. 

X Another preacher, an equal favourite with the few, 
who was at that time ailing. For hiffl see abo tiu Or» 
dinatjon, Stanw IX. 



n 



BURNS' WORKS, 



Or up the rink, like Jehu roar, 

In time o* need ; 

But now he lags on death's hog-score, 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

Now safe the stately sawmont sail, 
And trouts bedropp'd wi* crimson hail. 
And eels weel kenn'd for souple tail, 

And geds for greed, 

Since dark in death's fish-creel we wail, 

Tam Samson dead ! 

Rejoice, ye birring paitricks a' ; 
Ye cootie moorcocks, crousely craw ; 
Ye maukins, cock your fud fu' braw, 
■ Withouten dread ; 
Your mortal fae is now awa*, 

Tam Samson's dead • 

That waefu* mom be ever mourn'd, 
Saw him in shootin' gi-aith adorn'd, 
While pointers round impatient burn'd, 

Frae couples freed ! 
But, och ! he gaed and ne'er return'd ! 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

In Tain avid age his body batters ; 
In vain the gout his ancles fetters ; 
In vain the burns came down like waters, 

An acre braid ! 
Now ev'ry auld wife, greetin', clatters, 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

Owre mony a weary hag he limpit, 
An' aye the tither shot he thumpit. 
Till coward death behind him jumpit, 

Wi* deadly feide ; 
Now he proclaims wi* tout o' trumpet, 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

When at his heart he felt the dagger. 
He reel'd his v/onted bottle-swagger, 
But yet he drew the mortal trigger 

Wi' weel-aim'd heed ; 
.' L— d, five !* he cry'd, an' owre did stagger : 

Tam Samson's dead I 

Hk hoary hunter mourn'd a brither; 
nk sportsman youth bemoan'd a father ; 
Yon auld grey stane, amang the heather, 
Alarks out his head, 
Whare Bums has wrote, in rhyming blether, 
Tam Samson's dead ! 

There low he lies, in lasting rest : 
Perhaps upon his mould'ring breast 
Some spitefu' muirfowl bigs her nest, 

To hatch an' breed ; 
Alas ! nae mair he'll them molest ! 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

Wlien August winds the heather wave, 
And sportsmen wander by yon grave. 
Three volleys let his mem'ry crave 

O' pouther an' lead. 



Till Echo answer frae her cave, 

TanA Samson's dead ! 

Heav'n rest his saul, whare'er he be ! 
Is th' wish o' mony mac than me : 
He had twa fauts, or may be three, 

Yet what remead ? 
Ae social, honest man, want we : 

Tam Samson's dead ! 



THE EPITAPH. 

Tasi Samson's weel-worn clay here lies, 
Ye canting zealots, spare him ! 

If honest worth in heaven rise, 
Ye'U mend or ye woa near him. 



PER CONTRA. 

Go, Fame; and canter like a filly 
Thro' a' the streets an' neuks o* Killie," 
Tell every social, honest billie, 

To f ease his grievin , 
For yet unskaith'd by death's gleg guUie, 

Tam Samson's JivitC 



HALLOWEEN, t 

[Tbb following poem will, by many readers, be well 
enough understood ; but for the sake of those who 
are unacquainted with the manners and traditions of 
the country where the scene is cast, notes are added, 
to give soine account of the jirincipal charms and 
spells of that night, so big with propliecy to the pea- 
santry in the West of Scotland. The passion of pr)'. 
ing into futurity makes astriliing part of the history 
of human nature in its ri'de state, in all ages and 
nations ; and it may be some entertainment to a 
philosophic mind, if any such should honour the 
author with a perusal, to see the remains of it a 
mong the more unenlightened in our own.] 



Ves ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain. 
The simple i)lcasures of the lowiv train ; 
To me more dear, congenial to riiy heart. 
One native eharm, than all the gloss of art. 

Chldsmith. 



I. 
Upon that night, when fairies light, 

On Cassilis Downans \ dance. 
Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze, 

On sprightly coursers prance ; 
Or for Cohan the route is ta'en, 

Beneath the moon's pale beams ! 



» Kill'te is a phrase the country iblks sometirae.s us« 
for KilmarnocK. 

t Is thought to be a night when witches, devils, and 
other mischief-making beings, are all abroad on their 
baneful midnight crr.mds: particularly those aerial 
people, the Fairies, axa said on that night to hold a 
grand anniversary. 

X Certain little romantic, locky, green hill^, in the 
neighbourhood of the ancient seat of the Earls of Cai. 
suis. 



POEMS. 



25 



There, up the cove,* to stray an* rove 
Amang the rocks and streams, 

To sport that night 

II. 

Amang tte bonnie winding banks 

Where Doon rins, wimplia', clear, 
Where Bruce f ance rul'd the martial ranks 

An' shook his Carrick spear, 
Some merry, friendly, countra folks, 

Together did convene, 
To burn their nits, an' pou their stocks, 

An' hand their Halloween 

Fn' blithe that night, 

III. 

The lasses fe'at, an' cleanly neat, 

Mair braw than when thd^r fine ; 
Their faces blithe, fn' sweetly kythe, 

Hearts leal, an' M-arm, au' kin' : 
The lads sae trig, wi' wooer-balx, 

Weel knotted on their garten, 
Some unco blate, an' some wi' jia' ■. 

Gar lasses' hearts gang startin' 

Whyles fast at night. 

l\. 

Then first and foremost, thro' the kail. 

Their stocks^ maun a' be sought ance; 
They steek their een, an' graip an' wale. 

For muckle anes and straught anes. 
Poor hav'rel Will foil aff the drift. 

An' wander'd thro' the how-kail, 
An' pou't, for want o' better shift, 

A runt was like a sow-tail, 

Sae bow't that night. 



Then, straught or crooked, yird or nane, 

They roar an' cry a' throu'ther ; 
The vera wee things, todlin', rin 

Wi' stocks out-owre their shouther ; 
An' gif the custoc's sweet or sour, 

Wi' joctelegs they taste tliera ; 
Syne coziely, aboon the door, 

Wi' cannie care, they've plac'd them 
To lie that night. 



• A noted cavern near Colean-house, called The 
Cove of Colean ; which, as Cassilis Downans, is famed 
in country siory for being a favourite haunt for fairies. 

fThe famous family of that name, the ancestors of 
Robert, the great deliverer of his country, were Earls 
of Carrick. 

t 1 he first ceremony of Halloween, is pulling each 
a stock, or plant of kail. They must go out, hand in 
hand, with eyes shut, and pull the first thev meet 
with ! Its being big or little, straight, or crooked, is 
prophetic of the size and shapo of the grand object of 
all their spells — the husband or wife. Jf any yird, or 
earth, stick to the root, that is tocher, or fortune ; and 
the taste of the custoc, that is the heart of the stem, is 

indicative of the natural temper and disposition 

l.astly, the stems, or, to give them their ordinary ap- 

gellation, the runts, are placed somewhere abo\e the 
ead of the door; and the Christian names of ihe peo- 
ple whom chance brings into the house, are, according 
to the priority of placing the rujtti, the names in ques- 
tian. 



VI. 



The lasses staw firae 'mang them a* 

To pou their stalks o' com ; * 
But Rab slips out, and jinks about, 

Behint the muckle thorn : 
He grippet Nelly hard an' fast ; 

Loud sklrl'd a' the lasses ; 
But her tap-pickh maist was lost, 

When kiuttlin' in the fause-house-| 

Wi' him that night, 

VII. 
The auld guidwife's weel-hoordet nit$\ 

Are round an' round divided, 
And monie lads and lasses' fates, 

Are there that night decided : 
Some kindle, couthy, side by side, 

An' burn thegither trimly ; 
Some start awa' wi' saucy pride, 

An' jV::ip out-owre the chimlie 

Fu' high that night. 

VIII. 
Jean slips in twa wi' tentie e'e ; 

Wha 'twas, she wadna tell ; 
But this is Jock, an' this is me. 

She says in to herscl' : 
He bleez'd owre her, and she owre him, 

As they wad never mair part ; 
Till fuff ! he started up the lum, 

An' Jean had e'en a sair heart 

To see't that night. 

IX. 

Poor Willie, wi' his bow-kail runt. 

Was brunt wi' primsie Mallie ; 
An' Mallie, nae doubt, took the drunt, 

To be conipar'd to Willie : 
Mall's nit lap out wi' pridefu' fling. 

An' her ain fit it brunt it ; 
While Willie lap, and swoor hy jing, 

'Twas just the way he wanted 

To be that night. 

X. 

Nell had the fause-house in her min', 
She pits hersel' an' Rob in ; 

In loving bleeze they sweetly join. 
Till white in ase they're sobbin' : 

Nell's heart was dancin' at the view. 
She whisper'd Rob to look for't : 



* They go to theljarnyard, and pull each, at three 
several times, a stalk of oats. If the third stalk wants 
the top-pickle, that is, the grain .it the top of the stalk, 
the parly in qutstion will cDme to the marriage-bed 
any thing but a maid. 

t When the corn is in a doubtful state, by being too 
green, or wet, the staok-builder, by means of old tim- 
ber, &e. makes a large .iparlmcnt in his stack, with an 
opening in the side which is fairest exposed to the 
v/ind ; this he calls a fause-house. 

% Burning the nuts is a favourite charm. They name 
the lad and lass to each particular nut, as thev lay them 
in the fire, and accordingly as they burn quietly toge. 
ther, or start from beside one another, the course ani} 
issue of the courtship will be. ' 

24 



S6 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Bob, itowlins, prie'd her bonnie mou, 
Fu* cozie in the neuk for't, 

Unseea that night. 

XI. 

But Meiran sat behint their backs, 

Her thoughts on Andrew Bell ; 
She lea'es them gashin' at their cracks, 

And slips out by hersel' : 
She thro' the yard the nearest taks, 

An' to the kiln she goes tlien, 
An' darklins graipit for the bauks, 

And in the blue clue* throws then, 

Right fear't that night; 

XII. 

An' aye she win't, an' aye she swat, 

I wat she made nae jaiikia ; 
Till something held within the pat, 

Guid L — d ! but she was quakin' ! 
But whether 'twas the Dei! himsel', 

Or whether 'twas a bauk-en, 
Or whether it was Andrew Bell, 

She did na wait on talkin' 

To spear that night. 

XIII. 
Wee Jenny to her Grannie says, 

" Will ye go wi' me, grannie ? 
I'll eat the apple f at the r/laxs, 

I gat frae uncle Johnii; :" 
She fufiTt her pipe wi' sic a luut. 

In wrath she was sae vap'rin', 
She Dotic't na, an aizle brunt 

Her braw new worset apron 

Out thro' th.it night. 

XIV. 
" Ye little skelpie-liuuner's face ! 

How daur ye try sic sportin', 
As seek the foul Thief ony place, 

For him to spae your fortune ': 
Nae doubt but ye may get a sight ! 

Great cause ye hae tci fear it ; 
For monie a ane has gotten a fright. 

An' hv'd an' di'd dcleerct 

On sic a night. 

XV. 

" Ae hairst afore the Shcira-moor, 

I mind 't as weel's yestreen, 
I was a gilpey then, I'm suie 

I was na past fyfteen : 



• Whoever would, with success, try this spell, must 
strictly observe these direct ions: Steal out, all alone, 
to the hiln, and, darkling, throw 'mu^ the iiut a elue of 
blue yarn ; wind it in a new elne otT ihe old one : and, 
towards the liitter end, something h rll hold the thread, 
demand ujA/j /(aurfj ? i.e. who holds? .-ui answer will 
be returned from the kiln-put, by naming the Chris- 
tian and sirname of your future spouse. 

t Take a candle, and go alone to a looking-glass ; 
rat an apple before it, and some traditions say, you 
should comb your hair all the time ; the face of your 
conjugal companion, to be, will be seen i^ the glass, as 
if peeping over your shoulder, 



The simmer had been cauld an* wat, 

An' stuff was uui-o green ; 
An' aye a rantin kirn we gut, 

An' just on Halloween 

It fell that night. 

XVI. 

" Our stibblo-riu: was Rab M'Graen, 

A clever, sturdy fallow ; 
He's sin gat Eppie Sim wi' wean, 

That liv'd in Arhmacalla : 
He gat hcnip-xeed,* I mind it weel, 

An' he made unco li;^ht o't ; 
But mony a day was hi/ himsel', 

He was sae sairly frighted 

That vera night.* 

XVII. 
Than up gat fechtin' Jamie Fleck, 

An' he swour by his conscience, 
That he could saw hemp-seed a peck ; 

For it was a' but nousense ! 
The auld guid- man raught down the pock, 

An' out a haiidfu' gied him ; 
Syne bad him slip frae 'niang the folk, 

Sometime when nae ane see'd him, 

Au' try't that night. 

XVIII. 
He marches thro' aman;^ the stacks, 

Tho' lie was something sturtin, 
The ffraip he for a harrow taks, 

An' haurls at his curpin : 
An' ev'iy now an' then he says, 

" Hemp-seed I saw thee. 
An' her that is to be my lass, 

Come after me, and draw thee, 

As fast this night." 

XIX. 

He whistl'd up Lord Leunox' march, 

To keep his courage cheery ; 
Altho' his hair began to arch, 

lie was sae fley'd an' eerie : 
Till ])resL'nt!y he hears a squeak. 

An' then a grane an' gruntle ; 
lie by his shouther gae a keek. 

An' tuiubl'd wi' a wintle 

Out-owre that night. 

XX. 

He roar"d a hoilid murder shout. 

In dreadfu' desperation ! 
An' young an' auld cam rinnin' out. 

To hear the sad narration : 



• Steal out uupcrceived, and sow a handful of hemn- 
secd : harrownii; it with .-uiy thing you can convenient- 
ly draw after you. Repeat now and then, ' Hemp-seed 
I saw thee: henipsptd 1 s.iw thcei and him (or her) 
that IS to be my irue.love, come after me and pou 
thee." Look over vonr left shoulder, and you will see 
the appearance of the person invoked, in the attitude 
of pulling hemp. .Some traditions say, ' come after 
me, and shaw Ihce,' that is, show thyself: in which 
ca.se It snnply appears. Others omit the harrowing, 
and say, • come after me, and hanow thee.' 



POEMS. 



» 



He swoor 'twas hilcliin Jeau M'Craw, 
Or ciouchie Merran Humphie, 

Till stop ! she trotted thro' them a' ; 
An' wha was it but Grwiiphie 

Asteer that night ! 

XXI. 

Meg fain wad to the ham hae gane, 

"To win three wechts o' naetlung ; * 
But for to meet the deil her lane, 

She pat but little faith in : 
She gies the herd a pickle nits, 

An' twa red clieekit apples, 
To watch, while tor the bai-n she sets, 

In hopes to see Tarn Kipples 

That vera night. 

XXII. 

She turns the key wi' cannie thraw. 

An' owre the threshold ventures; 
But first on Sawnie gies a ca', 

Syne bauldly in she enters ; 
A ratton rattled up the wa', 

An* she cry'd, L — d preserve her ! 
An' ran thro' midden-hole an' a'. 

An' pray'd wi' zeal and fervour, 

Fu' fast that night. 

XXIII. 

They hoy't out Will, wi' sair advice ; 

Then hecht him some fine braw ane ; 
It chanc'd the stack he fa.ddomd thrice,-^ 

Was timmer-prapt for thrawia' ; 
He taks a swirlie auld moss-oak, 

For some black, grousome carlin ; 
An' loot a wince, an* drew a stroke, 

Till skin in blypes cam haurlin' 

Aff's nieves that night. 

XXIV. 

A wanton widow Leezie was. 

As canty as a kittlen ; 
But Och ! that night, amang the shaws, 

She got a fearfu' settlin' I 
She thro* the whins, an' by the cairn, 

Au' owre the hill gaed scricvin', 
Whare three lairds' lands met at a hurn.,\ 

To dip her left sark-sleevc in, 

Was bent that night. 



XXV. 

Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays, 

As thro' the glen it wirapl't ; 
Whyles round a rocky scar it strays ; 

Whyles in a wiel it dimpl't ; 
Whyles glitter'd to the nightly rays, 

Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle ; 
Whyles cookit underneath the biaes, 

Below the spreading hazel, 

Unseen that night. 

XXVI. 

Aniang the brackens, on the brae, 

Between her an' the moon, 
The deil, or else an outler quey. 

Gat up an' gae a croori : 
Poor Leezie's heart maist lap the hool ; 

Ne'er lav rock-height she jumpit, 
But mist a fit, an' in the pool 

Out-owre the lugs she plumpit, 

Wi' a plunge that night. 

XXVII. 

In order, on the clean hearth-stane, 

The litggies three* are ranged, 
And ev'ry time great care is ta'en, 

To see them duly changed : 
Auld uncle John, wha wedlock's joys 

Sin' Mars-year did desire, 
Because he gat the toom-dish thrice. 

He heav'd them on the fire, 

In wrath that night. 

XXVIII. 

Wi' merry sangs, an' friendly cracks, 

I wat they did na weary ; 
An* unco tales, and funnie jokes, 

Their sports were cheap an* cheery : 
Till butter'd so'ns,f wi' fragrant lunt, 

Set a' their gabs a-steerin' ; 
Syne, wi' a social glass o* strunt, 

They parted aflf careerin' 

Fu* blithe that night. 



• This charm must likewise be performed unper- 
eeived, and alone. You go to the barn, and open both 
doors, taking them off the hinges, if possible ; lor there 
is danger, that the being about to appear, may shut 
the doors, and do you some mischief. Then take that 
instrument used in winnowing the corn, which, in 
country dialect, we call a xoecht, and go through all the 
aittitudes of letting down corn against the wuid. Re- 
peat it three times; and the third time an apparition 
will pass through the barn, ifi at the windy door, and 
out at the other, having both the figure in question, 
and the appearance or retinue, marking the employ- 
ment, or station in life. 

f Take an opportunity of going, unnoticed, to 
Bear-stack, and fathom it three times round. 1 he 
last fathom of the last time you will catch in your 
arms the appearance of your future conjugal yoke- 
fellow. 

% You go out, one or more, for this is a social spell, 
to a south running spring or rivulet, where ' three 
lairds' lands meetj' and dip your left shirt slteve. Go 



to bed in sight of a fire, and hang your wet sleeve be- 
fore it to dry. Lie awake ; and sotne time near mid- 
night, an apparition, having the exact figure of the 
grand object m question, will come and turn the sleeve 
as if to dry the other side of it. 

* Take three dishes, put clean water in one, foul 
water in another, leave the third empty ; blindfold a 
person, and lead him to the hearth where the dishes 
are ranged : he (or she) dips the left hand ; if by 
chance in the clean water, the future husband or wife 
will come to the bar of matrimony a maid ; if in the 
foul, a widow; if in the empty dish, it foretells, with 
equal certainty, no marriage at all. It i« repeated 
three times, and every time the arrangement of the 
dishes is altered. 

t Sowens, with butter instead of milk to them, (I 
always the kalloween Supper, 



BURNS' WORKS. 



THE 

AULD FARMER'S 

NEW-TEAR MORNING SALUTATION TO HIS 

AULD MARE MAGGIE, 

ON GIVING HER THE ACCCSTOMED RIPPOF CORN 
TO HANSEL IN THE NEW YEAR. 

A Guid New- Year I wish thee, Maggie ! 
Hae, there's a ripp to thy auld baggie : 
Tho' thou's howc-backit, now, an' knaggie, 

I'vn seen the day, 
Thou could hae gaen like onie staggie 

Out-owre the lay. 

Tho' now thou's dowie, stifF, an' crazy, 
An' thy auld hide's as white's a daisy, 
I've seen thee dappl't, sleek, an' glaizie, 

A bonnie p'ay : 
He should been tight that daur't to raize thee, 

Ance in a day. 

Thou ance was i' the foremost rank, 
A Jillff buirdly, steeve, an' swank. 
An* set weel down a shapely shank 

As e'er tred yird ; 
An' could hae flown out-owre a stank, 

Like onie bird. 

It's now some nine-an'-twenty year, 
Sin* thou was my guid father's meere ; 
He gied me thee, o' tocher clear, 

An* fifty mark ; 
Tho' it was sma', 'twas wcel-won gear, 
An' thou was stark. 

When first I gaed to woo my Jenny, 
Ye then was trottin' wi' your minnie : 
Tho' ye was trickie, slee, an' funnic. 

Ye ne'er was donsie, 
But hamely, tawie, quiet, an' cannie, 
An' unco sonsie. 

That day, ye pranc'd wl' muckle pride. 
When ye bure hame my bonnie bride : 
An' sweet an' giacefu' she did ride, 

Wi' maiden air ! 
Kyh Stewart I could bragged wide, 

For sic a pair. 

Tho' now ye dow but hoyte an' hobble. 
An' wintic like a samount-toble. 
That day ye was a jinker noble, 

Fer heels an' win' ! 
An' ran them till they a' did wauble. 

Fur, far behia'. 

When thou an' 1 were young and skeigh. 
An' stable-meals at fairs were dieigh. 
How tho»i wad prance, an' snore, an* skreigh, 

An' tak the road ! 
Town's bodies ran, an' stood abcigh. 

An' ca't thee mad. 



When thou was corn't, an' I was mellow. 
We took the road aye like a swallow : 
At JBrooses thou had ne'er a fellow, 

For pith an' speed ; 
But ev'ry tail thou pay't them hollow, 
Whare'er thou gaed. 

The sma', droop- rumpl't, hunter cattle. 
Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle ; 
But sax Scotch miles thou try't their mettle, 

An' gar't them whaizle ; 
Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle 

O' saugh or hazel. 

Tliou was a noble Jittie-lari, 
As e'er in tug or tow was drawn ; 
Aft thee an' I, in aught hours gaun. 

On guid March weather, 
Hae tiirn'd sax rood beside our han', 

For days thegither. 

Thou never brainug't, an' fetch't, an' fliskit, 
But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit. 
An' spread abreed thy weel-fiil'd brisket, 

Wi' pith an' pow'r, 
Till spritty knowes wad rair't an' risket, 

An' slypet owre. 

Wlien frosts lay lang, an' snaws were deep, 
An' threaten'd labour back to keep, 
I gied thy cog a wee bit heap 

Aboon the timmer : 
I ken'd my Maggie wadna sleep 

For that, or simmer. 

In cart or car thou never reestit ; 
The steyest brae thou wad hae fac't it ; 
Thou never lap, and sten't, and breastit. 

Then stood to blaw ; 
But just thy step a v.-ee thing hastit. 

Thou snoov't awa. . 

My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a* : 
Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw ; 
Forbye sax mae, I've sell't awa. 

That thou hast nurst : 
They drew me thretteen pund an* twa, 

The vera warst. 

IMonie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought, 
An' wi' the weary warl' fought ! 
An' monie an anxious day, I thought 

We wad be beat ! 
Yet here to crazy age we're brought,' 

Wi' something yet. 

And think na, my auld, trusty servap', 
That now perhaps tliou's less desei-vin', 
An' thy auld days may end in starvin'. 

For my last_/c)«, 
A hcapit stimparf, I'll reserve ane 
Laid by for you. 

We've worn to crazy years thegither ; 
We'll toyte ab6ut wi' ane anither j 



POEMS. 



29 



Wi' tentie care I'll flit thy tether, 

To some hain'd rig, 

Whare ye may nobly rax your leather, 
Wi' sma' fatigue. 



TO A MOUSE, 

ON TURKING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH IHK 
J-LOUGH, NOVEMBER, 1785. 

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin", tim'rous beastle, 
O, what a panic's in thy breastie ! 
Thou need na' start awa sae hasty, 

Wi' bickering brattle ! 
I wad be laith to rin an* chase thee, 

Wi' murd'ring pattle I 

I'm truly sorry man's dominion 
Has broken Nature's social union, 
An' justifies that ill opinion 

Which makes thee startle 
At me, thy poor earth-born companion 
An' fellow-mortal ! 

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve ; 
What then ? poor beastie, thou man live ! 
A daimen iclttr in a throve 

'S a sma' request : 
I'll get a blessin* wi* the lave. 

An' never miss't ! 

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin ! 
Its silly wa's the win's are strewin' ! 
An' naething, now, to big a new ane, 

O' foggage green ! 
An' bleak December's winds eusuin', 

Baitli snell an' keen ! 

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste. 
An' weary winter comin' fast. 
An' cozie here, beneath the blast. 

Thou thought to dwell, 
Till crash ! the cruel coulter past 

Out thro' thy cell. 

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble. 
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble ! 
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, 

But house or hald, 
To thole the winter's sleety dribble. 

An' cranreuch cauld ! 

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane. 
In proving foresight may be vain : 
The best laid schemes o' wifce an' men. 

Gang aft agley. 
An' lea'e us nought but grief as pain. 
For promis'd joy. 

Still thou ait blest, compar'd wi' me I 
Th« present only toucheth thee : 



But, Och ! I backward cast my e'e 

On prospects drear : 

An' forward, though I canna see, 

I ffuess an' fear. 



A WINTER NIGHT. 



Poor naked ivretches, wheresoe'er you are. 
That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm ! 
How shall your houseless heads, and unfed side*, 
Your loop'd and window'd raggedness, defend you 
From seasons such as these ? — S/iaksepeare- 



When biting Boreas, fell and doure. 
Sharp shivers through the leafless bow'r ; . 
When Phodius gi'es a short-liv'd glower 

Far south the lift, 
Dim-dark* ning through the flaky show'r 

Or whirling drift : 

Ae night the storm the steeples rocked. 
Poor labour sweet in sleep was locked. 
While burns, v.-i' snawy wreaths up-choked( 

Wild -eddying swirl, 
Or through the mining outlet bocked, 

Down headlong hurl. 

List'ning, the doors an' winnocks rattle, 
I thought me on the ourie cattle. 
Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle 
O' winter war, 
And through the drift, deep-lairing sprattle, 
Beneath a scar. 

Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing, 
That in the merry month o' spring. 
Delighted me to hear thee sicg, 

V/hat comes o' thee ? 
Whare wilt thou cow'r thy chittering wing, 

An' dose thy e'e? 

Ev'n yoa on murd'ring errands toil'd, 
Lone from your savage homes exil'd. 
The blood- stain'd roost, and sheep-cote spoil'd, 

Biy heart forgets. 
While pitiless the t^impest wild 

V Soic on you beats. 

Now Phxthc, ii; her miduight reign. 
Dark muffled, visw'd the dreary plain; 
Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train. 

Rose in my sou). 
When on my ear tills plaintive strain, 

Slow, solemn stole — 

' Blow, blew, ye winds, with heavier gust ! 
Ar.d freeze, ye bitter-bitiag frost ; 
Descend, ye chilly, sniotheriug snows ; 
Not all your rage, as now, united, shows 

Jlore hard unkiiidness, unrelenting, 

Vengeful malice unrepcating, 



ttO 



BURNS* WORKS. 



Than tedVfejl-lllumm'd ftiafi On bfotticf tiidin 
bestows ! 
See stern Oppression's iron grip, 
Or Iliad Ambition's gory hand, 
Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip, 

Woe, Want, and Murder o'er a land ! 
Even in the peaceful rural vale. 
Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale, 
How pampered Luxury, Flatt'ry by her side, 
The parasite empoisoning her e:ir, 
With all the servile wretches in the rear, 
Looks o'er proud property, extended wide ; 
And eyes the simple rustic hind. 

Whose toil upholds the glitt'ring show, 
A creature of another kind, 
Some courser substance, unrefined. 
Placed for her lordly use thus f:ir, thus vile, 
below. 
Where, where is Love's fond, tender throe. 
With lordly Honour's lofty brow. 
The powers you proudly own ? 
Is there, beneath Love's noble name, 
Can harbour, dark, the selfish aim, 

To bless himself alone ! 
Mark maiden-innocence a prey 

To love-pretending snares, 
This boasting Honour turns away, 
Shunning soft Pity's rising sway. 
Regardless of the tears, and unavailing pray'rs ! 
Perhaps, this hour, in Mis'ry's squalid nest, 
She strains your infant to her joyless breast, 
And with a mother's fears shrinks at the rock- 
ing blast ! 
Oh ye ! who, sunk in beds of down, 
Feel not a want but what yourselves create, 
Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate, 
Whom friends and fortune quite disown ! 
rUtatisfy'd keen ^fature's clam'rous call, 

Stretch'd on his straw he lays himself to 
sleep. 
While thro' the rugged roof and chinky wall. 
Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifty heap ! 
Think on the dungeon's grim confine. 
Where guilt and poor misfortune pine ! 
Guilt, erring man, relenting view ! 
But shall thy legal rage pursue 
The wretch; already crushed low 
By cruel Fortune's undeserved blow ? 
AfiSiction's sons are brothers in distress, 
A brother to relieve, how exquisite the 
' bliss!' 

I heard nae malr, for Chanticleer 

Shook off the pouthery snaw. 
And hail'd the morning with a cheer, 

A cottage -rousing craw. 

But deep this truth impressed my mind^ 

Thro' all his works abroad, 
The heart benevolent and kind 

The most resembles God. 



EPISTLE TO DAVIE, 

A BROTHER tOET.* 



January 



While winds frae afif Sen-Lomond bUw, 
And bar the doors wi' driving snaw, 

And hing us owre the ingle, 
I set me down to pass the time, 
And spin a verse or twa o' rhyme. 

In hamely westlan' jingle. 
While frosty winds blaw in the drift, 

Ben to the chimla lug, 
I grudge a wee the great folk's gift. 
That live sae bien and snug : 
I tent less, and want less 
Their roomy fireside ; 
But hanker and canker, 
To see their cursed pride. 

IL 

Its hardly in a body's pow'r 
To keep at times frae being sour, 
To see how things are shar'd ; 
How best o' chiels are whiles in want. 
While coofs on countless thousands rant, 

An' ken na how to wair't : 
But, Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head. 

Tho' we hae little gear. 
We're fit to win our daily bread, 
As lang's we're hale and fier : 
' Mjir speir na, nor fear na'f 
Auld age ne'er mind a feg, 
The last o't, the warst o't, 
Is only for to beg. 

III. 

To lie in kilns and barns at e'en. 
When banes are craz'd and bluid is thin, 

Is, doubtless, great distress ! 
Yet then, content could make us blest ; 
Ev'n then sometimes we'd snatch a taste 

Of truest happiness. 
The honest heart that's free frae a' 

Intended fraud or guile, 
However fortune kick the ba'. 
Has aye some cause to smile ; 
And mind still, you'll find still, 

A comfort this nae sma' : 
Nae malr then, we'll care then, 
Nae farther can we fa'. 

IV. 

What though, like commoners of air, 
We wander out we know not where, 

But either house or hall ? 
Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods, 
The sweeping vales, and foaming floods. 

Are free alike to all. 
In days when daisies deck the ground. 

And blackbirds whistle clear, 



• David Sillar, one of the club at Tarbolton, an<] 
author of a volume of poems in the Scottish dialect, 
t Ramsay. 



1»012M9. 



Witk holiest joy our keafU will bound, 
To see the coming year : 

On braes when wc please, then, 
We'll sit and sowth a tune ; 
Syne rhyme till't, we'll time till't, 
And sing't when we hae done. 

V. 
It's no in titles nor in rank ; 
It's DO in wealth like Lon'un bank, 

To purchase peace and rest ; 
It's no in making muckle mair : 
It's no in books ; it's no in lear, 

To mak us truly blest ! 
If happiness hae not her seat 

And centre in the breast, 
We may be wise, or rich, or great, 
But never can be blest : 

Nae treasures, nor pleasures. 

Could make us happy lang ; 
The heart ay'es the part aye, 
That makes us right or wrang. 

VI. 
Think ye that sic as you and I, 
Wha drudge and drive through wet an' dry, 

Wi' never-ceasing toil ; 
Think ye, are we less blest than they, 
Wha scarcely tent us in their way, 

As hardly worth their while ? 

Alas ! how oft in haughty mood, 

God's creatures they oppress ! 

Or else, neglecting a' that's guid, 

They riot in excess ? 

Baith careless and fearless 

Of either heav'n or hell ; 
Esteeming and deeming 
It'* a' an idle tale ! 

VII. 
Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce ; 
Nor make our scanty pleasures less, 

By pining at our state ; 
And, even should misfortunes come, 
I here wha sit, hae met wi' some, 

An's thankfu' for them yet. 
They gie the wit of age to youth ; 
They let us ken oursel' ; 
They make us see the naked truth. 
The real guid and ilL 
Tho' losses and crosses, 

Be lessons right severe. 
There's wit there, ye'll get there, 
Ye'U find nae other where. 

vin. 

But tent me, Davie, ace o' hearts ! 

(To say aught else wad wrang the cartes, 

And flatt'ry I detest) 
This life has joys for you and I ; 
And joys that riches ne'er could buy ; 

And joyv the very best. 
There's a' the pleasures o' the heart, 

The lover an' the frien' ; 
Ye hae your Meg, your dearest part, 

And I my darling Jean ! 



It Warms me, It cUrma ih«, 
To mention but her name • 

It heats me, it beets me, 
And sets me a' on flame ! 

IX. 

O all ye Powers who rule above ! 
O Thou whose very self art love ! 

Thou knowest my words sincere ! 
The life-blood streaming thro' my heart, 
Or my more dear immortal part. 

Is not more fondly dear ! 
When heart-corroding care and grief 

Deprive ray soul of rest. 
Her dear idea brings relief 
And solace to my breast. 
Thou Seing, All-seeing, 

O hear my feivent pray'r ; 
Still take her and make her 
Thy most peculiar care ! 

X. 

All hail, ye tender feelings dear I 
The smile of love, the friendly tear, 

The sympathetic glow ; 
Long since, this world's thorny ways 
Had numbered out my weary days. 

Had it not been for you ! 
Fate still has blest me with a friend, 

In every care and ill ; 
And oft a more endearing band, 
A tie more tender still. 
It lightens, it brightens 
The tenebrific scene. 
To meet with, and greet with 
My Davie or my Jean. 

XI. 
O, how that name inspires my style ! 
The words come skelpin' rank and file, 

Amaist before I ken ! 
The ready measure rins as fine, 
As Phoebus and the famous Nine 

Were glowrin* owre my pen. 
My spaviet Pegasus will limp. 

Till ance he's fairly het ; 
And then he'll hiltch, and stilt, and jimp. 
An' rin an' unco fit : 

But lest then, the beast then, 
Should rue his hasty ride, 
I'll light now, and dight now 
His sweaty wizen'd hide. 



THE LAMENT, 



occasioned by theunfortunate issue op a. 
friend's amour. 



Alas ! how oft does Goodness wound itself, 

And sweet ^jffiction prove the spring of woe '.—Uomt, 



THoo pale orb, that silent shines. 
While care-untroubled mortals sleep ' 



32 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Thou seest a wretcK that inly pines, 
And wanders here to wail and weep i 

With woe I nightly vigils keep, 

Beneath thy wan unwaniilng bcara ; 

And mourn, in lamentation deep, 
How life and love are all a dream. 

II. 
I joyless view thy rays adorn 

The faintly-marked distant hill : 
I joyless view thy trembling horn, 

Reflected in the gurgling rill : 
My fondly-fluttering heart be stdl ! 

Thou busy power. Remembrance, cease ! 
Ah ! must the agoniziiig thrill 

For ever bar returning peace ! 

III. 
No idly-feign'd poetic pains, 

My sad, love-lorn lamentings claim ; 
No shepherd's pipe — Arcadian strains ; 

No fabled tortures, quaint and tame : 
The plighted faith ; the mutual flame ; 

The oft-attested Powers above ; 
The promised Father's tender name ; 

These were the pledges of my love ! 

IV. 

Encircled in her clasping arms, 

How have the raptur'd moments flown ! 
How have I wish'd for Fortune's charms, 

For her dear sake, and hers alone ! 
And must I think it ? is she gone. 

My secret heart's exulting boast ? 
And does she heedless hear my groan ? 

And is she ever, ever lost ! 



Oh ! can she bear so base a heart, 

So lost to honour, lost to truth] 
As from the fondest lover part, 

The plighted husband of her youth ! 
Alas ! life's path niny be unsmooth ! 

Her way may lit- tiiro' rough distress ! 
Then, who her panjrs and pains will sooth ? 

Her sorrows share aud make them less ? 

\I. 
Ye winged hoiir-j that o'er us past, 

Enraptur'd more, the more enjoy'd, 
Your dear remembrance in my breast, 

My fondly-treasur'd thoughts employ 'd. 
That breast, how dreary now, and void. 

For her too scanty once of room ! 
Ev'n ev'ry ray of hope destroy'd. 

And not a wish to gild the gloom ! 

VII. 
The morn that warns th' approacliing day, 

Awakes me up to toil and woe : 
I see the hours in long array. 

That I must suffer, lingering, slow. 
Full many a pang, and many a throe, 

Keen recollection's direful train, 



Must wring my soul, ere Phoebus, low,. . 
Shall kiss the distant, western main. 

VIII. 
And when my nightly couch I try, 

Sore-harass'd out with care and grief. 
My toil-beat nerves, and tear-woin eye, 

Keep watchings with the nightly thief: 
Or if I slumber, fancy,,chief, 

Reigns haggard-wild, in sore aflfright : 
Ev'n day, all-bitter, brings relief, 

From such a honor-breathing night. 

IX. 

O ! thou bright queen, who o'er th' expanse 

Now highest reign'st, with boundless sway ! 
Oft has thy silent-marking glance 

Observ'd us, fondly wandering, Stray : 
The time, unheeded, sped away, 

While love's luxurious pul^e beat high. 
Beneath thy silver-gleaming ray. 

To mark the mutual-kindling eye. 

X. 

Oh ! scenes in strong remembrance set ! 

Scenes, never, never, to return ! 
Scenes, if in stupor I forget, 

Again I feel, again I burn ! 
From ev'ry joy and pleasure torn. 

Life's weary vale I'll wander thro' ; 
And hopeless, comfortless, I'll mourn 

A faithless woman's broken vow. 



DESPONDENCY ; 



Oppress'd with grief, oppress'd with care, 
A burden more than I can bear, 

I sit me down and sigh : 
O life ! thou art a galling load. 
Along a rough, a weary road, 

To wretches such as I ! 
Dim backward as I cast my view, 

What sick'ning scenes appear ! 
What sorrows yet may pierce me thro', 
Too justly I may fear ! 
^ Still caring, despairing. 

Must be my bitter doom ; 
My woes here shall close ne'er. 
But with the closing tomb ! 

11. 

Happy ye sons of busy life, 
Who, equal to the bustling strife. 

No other view regard ! 
Ev'n when the wished end's deny'd, 
Yet while the busy means are ply'*^ 

They bring their own reward ; 
Whilst I, a hope-abandon'd wight, 

Unfitted with an aim. 
Meet ev'ry sad returning night. 

And joyless mora the same j 



POEMS. 



83 



You, bustling, and justliog', 
Forget each grief and pain ; 

I, listless, yet restless, 
Find ev'ry prospect vain. 

m. 

How blest the solitary's lot. 
Who, all-forgetting, all-forgot, 

Within his humble cell, 
The cavern wild with tangling roots, 
Sits o'er his newly-gather'd fruits, 

Beside his crystal well ! 
Or, haply, to his ev'ning thought. 

By unfrequented stream, 
The ways of men are distant brought, 
A faint collected dream : 
While praising, and raising 

His thoughts to heav'n on high, 
As wand'ring, meand'ring. 
He views the solemn sky. 

IV. 

Than I, no lonely hermit placed 
Where never human footstep traced, 

Less fit to play the part ; 
The lucky moment to improve, 
And just to stop, and just to move, 

With self-respecting art : 
But ah ! those pleasures, loves, and joys, 

Which I too keenly taste, 
The Solitary can despise, 
Can want, and yet be blest ! 
He needs not, he heeds not, 

Or human love or hate, 
Whilst I here must cry here. 
At perfidy ingrate ! 



Oh ! enviable, early days, 

When dancing thoughtless pleasure's maze, 

To care, to guilt unknown ! 
How ill-exchanged for riper times, 
To fed the follies, or the crimes. 

Of others, or my own ! 
Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport, 

Like linnets in the bush. 
Ye little know the ills ye court. 
When manhood is your wish ! 
The losses, the crosses. 

That active man engage ! 
The fears all, the tears all. 
Of dim declining age ! 



WINTER : 



Th£ wintry west extends his blast, 

And hail and rain does blaw ; 
Or, the stormy north sends driving forth 

The blinding sleet and snaw : 
While tumbling brown, the burn cotnes dowo> 

And roan frae bank to brae ; 



And bird and beast In covert rest. 
And pass the heartless day. 

n. 

" The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast," • 

The joyless winter-day, 
Let others fear, to me more dear 

Than all the pride of May : 
The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul, 

JMy griefs it seems to join. 
The leafless trees my fancy please. 

Their fate resembles mine ! 

in. 

Thou Poiver Supreme, whose mighty scheme 

These woes of mine fulfil. 
Here, firm, I rest, they must be best, 

Because they are Thy Will ! 
Then all I want (O, do thou grant 

This one request of mine ! ) 
Since to enjoy thou dost deny, 

Assist me to resign. 



COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 

INSCRIBED TO R. AIKEN, ESQ. 



Let not ambition mock their useful toil. 
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; 

Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile. 
The short and simple anuals of the poor.— Craj/. 



L 

Mt lov'd, my honour'd, much respected 
friend ! 
No mercenary bard his homage pays : 
With honest pride I scorn each selfish end. 
My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and 
praise : 
To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays. 

The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene ; 

The native feelings strong, the guileless 

ways; [been; 

What Aitken in a cottage would hav« 

Ah ! tho' his worth unknown, fax- happier there^ 

I ween ! 

IL 

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sough ; 
The short'ning winter-day is near a close ; 
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh ; 
The black'ning trains o' craws to their 
repose : 
The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes, 

This night his weekly moil is at an end. 
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his 
hoes. 
Hoping the mor» in ease and rest to spend. 
And weary, o'er the moor, his course does 
hameward bend. 



Dr, Voung, 



il4 



BURNS' WORKS. 



lit 



vm. 



1 



At leogtk ki8 lottely cot Appears m VieW, r 

Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; 
Th' expecUnt wee things, toddlin, Stacher 
thro' [aa' glee. 

To meet their Dad, wl' flichterm' noise 
His wee bit ingle, blinkin' bonnily, ^ 

His clean hearth-sUne, his thriftie wijie s 
smile, 
The lisping infant prattling on his knee, 
Does a' his weary carking cares beguile, 
And makes him quite forget his labour an' his 
toil 

IV. 
Belyve the elder bairns come drapping in,^ 
At service out, amang the farmers roun', 
Some ca* the pleugh, some herd, some tentie 
rin 
A cannie errand to a neebor town ; 
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman 
grown, ^ 

In youthfu' bloom, love sparklin' in her e e, 
Comes hame, perhaps, to show a bra' new 
gown, 
Or deposit her sair-won penny-fee. 
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. 

V. 

Wi* joy unfeign'd brothers and sisters meet, 

An' each for other's weelfare kindly spiers : 

The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnotic'd 

fleet ; 

Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears ; 

The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years ; 

Anticipation forward points the view. 
The mother, v/'i her needle an' her shears. 
Gars auld claes look amaist as weeKs the 
new ; 
Tte/atAer mi-xes a' wi' admonition due. 

VI. 

Their master's an' their mistress's command, 

The younkers a' are warned to obey ; 
And mind their labours wi' an eyedent hand, 

And ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play : 
• An' O ! be sure to fear the LoiiB alway ! 

An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' night ! 
Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, 

Implore his counsel and assisting might : 
They never sought in vain that sought the 
Lord aright !' 

VII. 
But hark ! a rap comes gently to the door ; 

Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, 
Tells how n neebor lad cam o'er the moor. 

To do some errands, and convoy her hame. 
The wily mother sees the conscious flame 

Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek ; 
Wl' heart-struck anxious care, inquires his 
name, 
■While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak ; 
yfft\ pleas'd the mother hears it's nae wild, 
YTtnthless rake. 



Wl' kindly Welcome Jennu brings him bcJl ) 
A strappin youth ; he taks the mother's eye J 

Blithe Jenny' sees the visit's no ill ta'en ; 
The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and 

The youngster's artless heart oerflows wi 
But blate and laithfu', scarce can weel 
bphave ; 
The mother, wl' a woman's wiles, can spy 
What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sae 
grave ; 
Weel pleas'd to think her hainis respected like 
the lave. 

IX. , 

O happy love ! where love like this is found ! 
O heart-felt raptures ! bliss beyond com- 
pare ! 
I've paced much this weary mortal round. 

And sage experience bids me this declare—. 
« If Heav'n a draught of heavenly pleasure 
spare. 
One cordial in this melancholy vale, "_ 
'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, 
In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, 
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the 
ev'ning gale.' 

» X. 

Is there, in human form, that bears a heart— 
A wretch ! a villain ! lost to love and truth J 
That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, 

Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth ? 
Curse oil his perjur'd arts ! dissembUng smoothi 
Arc honour, virtue, couscience all exil'd ? 
Is there no pity, no relenting ruth. 

Points to tiie parents fondling o'er their 
child ! 
Then paints the vuin'd maid, and their distrac- 
tiou wild? 



XL 
But now the supper crowns their simple 
board. 
The halesomepnrr!<cA, chief o'&orta's food : 
The sowpe their only Hawkie does aflbrd, 
That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her 
cood : 
The dame brings forth in complimental mood. 
To grace the lad, her weeUhain'd kebbuck 
fell. 
An' aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid ; 
The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell, 
How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the 
bell. 

XII. 

The chcerfu' supper done, wl' serious face, 
They, round the ingle, form a circle wide ; 

The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace, 
The big ka''Bible, ance his father's pride : 

His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside. 

His lyart haffets wearing thin an' bare i 

Those strain? that once did sweet in Zioa 



POEMS. 



He Wales a ptfrtlon with judicious care ; 
And • Let us worship Don !' he says, with 
solemn air. 

xin. 

They chant theh- artless notes In simple guise ; 

They tune their hearts, by fur the noblest 

aim : ' [jise ; 

Perhaps Dundee's wild warblinp; measures 

Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name ; 
Or noble Ely'ni beets the heav'n-ward flame, 

The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : 
Compared with these, Italian trills are tame ; 

The tickl'd ears no heart-felt raptures raise ; 
Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. 

XIV. 

The priest-like father reads the sacred page, 
How Abram was the friend o/'God on high; 
Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage 

With Avialek's ungracious progeny ; 
Or how tlie royal bard did groaning lie [ire ; 
Beneath the stroke of Heav'n's avenging 
Or, JoVs pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; 
Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire ; 
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 

XV. 

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, 

How guiltless blood for guilty man was 

shed ; [name, 

How He, who bore in Heaven the Sfcond 

Had not on earth whereon to lay his head; 

How his first followers and servants sped ; 

The precepts sage they wrote to many a 
How/ie, who lone in P«<mos banished, [laud : 
Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand ; 
And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounced by 
Heaven's commajid. 



S5 



XVI. 

Then kneeling down to PIeaven's eteknal 

King, [prays : 

The sai>it, the father, and the husband 

Hope ' springs exulting on triumphant wing,* 

That thus they all shall meet in future 

There ever bask in uncreated rays, [daj^s : 

No more to sigh or shed the bitter tear. 
Together hymning their Creator's praise, 
In such society, yet still more dear ; 
Wliile circling time moves round in an eternal 
sphere. 

XVII. 
Compared with this, how poor Religion's pride, 

In all the pomp of method, and of art, 
When men display to «>»?gregations wide, 

Devotion's cv'ry grace, except the heart ! 
The Pow'r, incensed, the pageant will desert. 
The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ; 
But haply, in some cottage far apart, 

May hear, well-pleased, the language of the 
soul ; 
And 1q his hook of life the inmates poor enrol. 

• Pope's Windsor Forest, | 



xvnr. 

Then haiTiew'ai'd all take off their s'ev'rat way j 

The youngling cottagers retire to rest : 
The parent pair their secret homaye pay, 

And proffer up to Heaven the warm request, 
That He who stills the raven's elam'rous nest,' 

And (leeks the lily fair in flow'ry pride, 
Would, in the way his wisdom sees the best. 

For them and for their little ones provide ; 
But chiefly in their hearts with grace divine 
preside. 

XIX. 

From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur 
springs, 
That makes her loved at home, rcYered 
abroad ; 
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, 
" An honest man's the noblest work of 
Gon !" 
And cerlcs, in ^r virtue's heav'nly road, 

The coitaye ieaves the palace far behind; 
What is a lordling's pomp ! a cumbrous load. 
Disguising oft the wretch of human kind. 
Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined ! 

XX. 

O Scotia ! my dear, rny native soil ! 

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is 
sent ! 
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil, 
Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet 
content ! 
And, O ! may Heav'n their simple lives pre- 
vent 
From Luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! 
Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, 
A virtuous populace may rise the while. 
And stand a wall of fire around their much- 
loved Isle. 

XXI. 
O Thou ! who pour'd the patriotic tide, 
That stream'd thro' Wallace's undaunted 
heart ; 
Wlio dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride. 
Or nobly die, the second glorious part, 
(The patriot's God, peculiarly thou art. 

His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward !) 
O never, never, Scotia's realm desert ; 
But still the patriot and the patriot bard. 
In bright succession raise, her ornament and 
guard ! 



MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN; 



Whev chill November's surly blast 
Made fields and forests bare, 

One ev'ning, as I wander'd forth 
Along the banka of Ayr, 



36 

I Bpy'd a man, wboM aged step 
Seem'd weary, worn with care ; 

His face was furrow'd o'er with year«, 
And hoary was his hair. 



Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou ? 

Began the rev'rend sage ; 
Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, 

Or youtliful pleasure's rage ? 
Or, haply, prest with cares and woes. 

Too soon thou hast began 
To wander forth, with me, to mourn 

The miseries of man ! 

III. 

The sun that overhangs yon moors, 

Out-spreading far and wide, 
AVhere hundreds labour to support 

A haughty lordling's pride ; 
I've seen yon weary winter-sun 

Twice forty times return ; 
And ev'ry time has added proofs, 

That man was made to mourn. 

IV. 

O man ! while in thy early years, 

Hew prodigal of time ! 
Mis-spending all thy precious hours ; 

Thy glorious youthful prime ! 
Alternate follies take the sway ; 

Licentious passions burn ; 
Which tenfold force gives Nature'j law, 

That man was made to mourn. 

V. 

Look not alone on youthful prime, 

Or manhood's active might ; 
Man then is useful to his kind, 

Supported is his right : 
But see him on the edge of life. 

With cares and sorrows worn. 
Then age and want, Oh ! ill-match'd pair ! 

Show man was made to mourn. 

VI. 
A few seem favourites of fate, 

In pleasure's lap carest ; 
Yet, think not all the rich and great 

Are likewise truly blest. 
But, Oh ! what crowds in every land, 

Are wretched and forlorn ; 
Thro* weary life this lesson learn, 

That man was made to mourn. 

VII. 

Many and sharp the num'rous ills. 

Inwoven with our frame ! 
More pointed still we make ourselves. 

Regret, remorse, and shame ! 
And man, whose heav'n-erected face 

The smiles of love adorn, 
Man's inhumanity to man 

Makes countless thouHoda mourn ! 



BURNS' WORKS. 



vni. 

Sec yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wigh^ 

So abject, mean, and vile, 
Who begs a brother of the earth 

To give him leave to toil ; 
And see his lordly fellow-worm 

The poor petition spurn, 
Unmindful, tho' a weeping wife 

And helpless offspring mourn. 

IX. 

If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave- 
By Nature's law design'd, 

Wliy was an independent wish 
E'er planted in my mind ? 

If not, why am I subject to 
His cruelty or scorn ? 

Or why has man the will and pow'r 
To make his fellow mourn? 

X, 

Yet, let not this too much, my ion, 

Disturb thy youthful breast : 
This partial view of human-kind 

Is surely not the last ! 
The poor, oppressed, honest man, 

Had never, sure, been born, 
Had there not been some recompense 

To comfort those that mourn ! 

XI. 
O Death ! the poor man's dearest friend, 

The kindest and the best ! 
Welcome the hour my aged limbs 

Are laid with thee at rest ! 
The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow. 

From pomp and pleasure torn ; 
But, Oh ! a blest relief to those 

That, weary-laden, mourn ! 



A PRAYER 



IN THE PROSPECT OF TIEATK. 



I. 

O THOU unknown, Almighty Cause 

Of all my hope and fear ! 
In whose dread presence, ere an hour, 

Perhaps I must appear ! 

IL 

If I have wander'd in those paths 

Of life I ought to shun ; 
As something, loudly, in my breast, 

Remonstrates I have done ; 

IIL 

Thou know'st that Thou hast formed mo 
With passions wild and strong ; 

And list'ning to their witching; TVIM 
Has often l«d me wrong. 



POEMS. 



S" 



IV. 

Where human tceaJhitss hi* come skort. 

Or frailty slept aside. 
Do thou, All Good ! far »nch thou art, 

In shades of darkness hide. 

V. 

Where with intention I hare err'd, 

No other pica I have. 
But, 77io« art good ,- and goodness still 

Delighteth to forgiye- 



STANZ.\S 

OS THX SAME OCCASIO:. 

Wht am I loath to leave this earthiv scene ? 
Have I so fbond it fall of pleasing charms ? 
Some drops of joy with draughts of ill be- 
tween : 
Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewed 
storms : 
Is it departing pangs mr soul alarms ; 

Or death's unlovely, drear)-, dark abode ? 
For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms ; 
I tremble to approach an angry Gor>, 
And justly smart beneath his sin-arenging rod. 

Fain would I mv, ' Forgive my foul oSence I' 

Fain promise never more to disobey ; 
Bat, should my Author health again dis- 
pense. 

Again I might desert fair virtue's way ; 
Again in folly's path might go astray ; 

Again exalt the brute and sink the mian ; 
Then how should I for heavenly mercy pray. 
Who act so counter heavenly raercj's plan ? 
Who sin so of^ have moum'd, yet to temptation 
ran? 

O Thou, great Governor of all below I" 

If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee, 
Thy nod can make the tempest cease to 
blow. 
Or still the tumult of the raging sea ; 
With that controlling pow'r assist ev'n me. 
Those headlong furious passions to con- 
fine ; 
For all unfit I feel my pow'rs to be, 

To rule their torrent in th' allowed line ! 
O aid me with thy help, Omnipotenct Divine ! 



When for this mkm of peftoe and lor*, 
I make my prayer sincere. 

n. 

The hoary sire — the mortal stroke, 
Long, long be pleased to spare, 

To bless his little filial flock, 
And show what good men are. 

m. 

She, who her lovely oflfepring ejre* 

W^ith tender hopes and fears, 
O bless her with a mother's joys. 

But spare a mother's tears I 

IV. 
Their hope, their stay, their darling yovth, 

In manhood's dawning blush ; 
Bless him, thou God of lore and trath. 

Up to a parent's wish ! 

V. 

The beauteous, seraph sister-band. 

With earnest tears I pray, 
Tnou know'st the snares on ev'ry haod, 

Guide tbou their steps alway ! 

W. 

When soon or late they reach that eotst. 
O'er life's rough ocean driv'n. 

May they rejoice, no wand'rer lort, 
A faniilv in Heav'n ! 



LYISG AT A KEVEREXD FEIEXD S HOVSE ONE 
MGHT, IKE AUTHOR LEKT THE rOLL0«"I>"0 



VERSES, 



IN THE ROOM WKEBE HE SLXFI. 



O THOO dread Pow'r, who reign'st abore, 
I know thoD wilt me hear, 



THE HRST PSALM. 

The man. in life wherever placed. 

Hath happiness in »tore. 
Who walks not in the wicked's war, 

Xor learns their guilty lore ! 

J«or from the seat of scornful pride 

Casts forth his eyes abroad, 
But with humility apJ s^*^ 

Still walks befr>^e his God. 

That man siall flourish like the trees 
WhJcb by the streamlets grow ; 

The fruitful top is spread on high. 
And firm the root below. 

But he whose bl(K9om buds in guilt 
Shall to the ground be cast. 

And, like the rootless stubble, tost 
Before the sweeping blast. 

For why ? that God the good adore 
Hath giv'n them peace and r«t. 

But hath decreed that wicked men 
Shall ne'er be truly Uest. 



38 • BURNS' WORKS, 

A PRAYER, TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, 



CmSBr THE PRESSURE OF VIOLENT ANGUISH. 

S THoa Great Being ! what thou art 

Surpasses me to know : 
' it sure am I, that known to thee 

Are all thy works btlow. 

rhy creature here before thee stands, 

AH wretched and distrest ; 
Yet sure those ills that wring my soul 

Obey thy high behest. 

Sure thou, Almighty, canst not act 

From cruelty or wrath ! 
O, free my weary eyes from tears. 

Or close them fast in death ! 

But if I must afflicted be. 

To suit some wise design ; 
Then man my soul with firm resolves, 

To bear and not repine. 



TUE FIRST SIX VERSES OP 

THE NINETIETH PSALM. 

O THOU, the first, the greatest Friend 

Of all the human race ! 
Whose strong right hand has ever been 

Their stay and dwelling place ! 

Before the mountains heav'd their heads 

Beneath tby forming hand, 
Before this pond'rous globe itself 

Arose at thy command ; 

That pow'r which lais'd, and still upholds 

This universal frame, 
From countless, iinbeginning time, 

Was ever still the same. 

Those mighty periods of years, 

Which seem to us so vast. 
Appear no more before thy sigVit, 

Than yesterday that's past. 

Thou gav'st the word : Thy creature, man, 

Is to existence brought : 
Again thou say'st, ♦ Ye sous of men, 

Return ye into nought !' 

Thou layest them, with all their cares, 

In everlasting sleep ; 
As with a flood thou tak'st them off 

With overwhelming sweep. 

They flourish like the morning flow'r, 

In beauty's pride array'd ; 
But long ere night cut down, it lies 

AU wither'd and decay'd. 



ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUOH, 11 
APRll,, 1786. 

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, 
Thou's met me in an evil hour ; 
For I maun crush amang the stoure 

Thy slender stem ; 
To spare thee now is past my pow'r. 

Thou bonnie geca. 

Alas ! it's no thy neebor sweet. 
The bonny Lark, companion meet . 
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet ! 

Wi' spreckl'd breast, 
When upward-springing, blithe, to greet 
The purpling east. 

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north 
Upon thy early, humble, birth ; 
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 

Amid the storm, 
Scarce rear'd above the parent earth 
Thy tender form. 

The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield. 
High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield ; 
But thou beueath the random bield 

O' clod or stane, 
Adorub the histie stibUe-Jicld, 

Uuseen, alaue. 

There, in thy scanty mantle clad. 
Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread, 
Thou lifts thy unassuming head 

In humble guise ; 
But now the share uptcars thy bed. 

And low thou lies ! 

Such is the fate of artless Maid, 
Sv/ett floweret of the rural shade ! 
By love's simplicity betray'd, 

And guileless trust, 
Till she, like thee, all soil'ii, is laid 

Low i' the dust. 

Such is the fate of simple Bard, 
On life's rough ocean luckless Starr' d, 
Unskilful he to note the card 

Oi prudent lore, 
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, 

And whelm him o'er ! 

Such fate to suffering iforth is giv'n. 
Who long with wauts and woes has striv'n, 
By human pride or cunning driv'n 

To mis'ry's brink. 
Till wrench'd of every stay but Heaven, 
He, ruin'd, sink ! 

Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate. 
That fate is thitie~— no distant date; 



POEMS. 



sa 



Stern Rum's plough-sJiare drives, elate, 
Full on thy bloom. 

Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, 
Shall be thy doom ! 



TO RUIN. 
I. 

All hail ! inexorable lord ! 

At whose destruction-breathing word. 

The mightiest empires fall ! 
Thy cruel, woe-delighted train. 
The ministers of grief and pain, 

A sullen welcome, all ! 
With steiu-resolv'd, despairing eye, 

I see each aimed dart ; 
Fur one has cut my dearcU tk. 
And quivers in my heart. 

Then low'riug, and pouring. 

The storm no more I dread ; 
Tho' thick'ning and blackn'ing. 
Round my devoted head. 

II. 
And thou grim power, by life abhorr'd. 
While life a pleasure can afford. 
Oh ! hear a wretch's prayer : 
No more I shrink appall'd, afraid ; 
I court, I beg thy fiiendly aid, 
To close this scene of care ! 
When shall my soul, in silent peace, 

Resign life's ju.y/tss day ; 
Aly weary heart its throbbings cease. 
Cold mouldering in the clay ? 
No fear more, no tear more, 
To stain my lifeless face ; 
Enclasped, and grasped 
Within jny cold embrace ! 



TO MISS L- 



WITH BEMTIE S POEMS, AS A NEW-YEAR S GIFT, 
JAN. 1, 1787. 

AcAiK the silent wheels of time 

Their annual round have driv'n. 
And you, tho' scarce in maiden prime, 

Are so much nearer Hcav'n. 

No gifts have I from Indian coasts 

The infant year to hail ; 
I send you more than India boasts 

la Edwins simple tale. 

Our sex with guile and faithless love 

Is charg'd, perhaps, too true ; 
But may, dear maid, each lover prove 

An Edwin still to you ! 



EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND . 

MAY , 1786. 

I. 

I LANG hae thought, my youthfu* Friendf 

A something to have sent you, 
Tho' it should serve nae other end 

Than just a kind memento ; 
But how the subject-theme may gang, 

Let time and chance determine ; 
Perhaps it may turn out a sang, 

Perhaps turu out a sermon. 

II. 

Ye'll try the warld soon, my lad, 

And, Andrew dear, believe me, 
Ye'll find mankind an unco squad, 

And inuckle they may grieve ye : 
For care and trouble set your thought, 

E'eu when your end's attained ; 
An a* your views may come to nought. 

Where ev'ry nerve is strained. 

III. 

I'll no say, men are villains a' ; 

The real, liarden'd wicked, 
Wha hae uae check but human law. 

Are to a few restricted : 
But och, mankind are uneo weak. 

An' little to be trusted ; 
If se{/' the wavering balance shake, 

Its rarely right adjusted ! 

IV. 

Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife 

Their fate wq should na censure. 
For still th' important end of life 

They equally may answer ; 
A man may hae an honest heart, 

Tho' poortith hourly stare him ; 
A man may tak a neebor's part. 

Yet hae nae cash to spare him. 

V. 

Aye free aff han' your story tell, 

When wi' a bosom crony ; 
But still keep something to yoursel' 

Ye scarcely tell to ony. 
Conceal yoursel' as weel's ye can 

Frae critical dissection ; 
But keek thro' every other man, 

Wi' sharpen'd sly inspection. 

VI. 

The sacred lowe o* weel-plac'd love, 

Luxuriantly indulge it ; 
But never tempt th' iUicit rove, 

Tho' naething should divulge it : 
I wave the quantum o' the sin, 

The hazard of concealing ; 
But och ! it hardens a' within, 

And petrifies the feeling ! 

VIL 

To catch dame Fortune's golden smile, 
Assiduous wait upon her j 



id 

Ana gaflier gear by ev'iy wile 
That's justified by honour ; 

Not for to hide it in a hedge, 
Nor for a train-attendant ; 

But for the glorious privilege 
Of being independent. 



BURNS' WORKS. 



The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip 

To baud the wretch in order ; 
But where ye feel your honour grip, 

Let that aye be your border : 
Its slightest touches, instant pause— 

Debar a' side pretences ; 
And resolutely keep its laws, 

Uncaring consequences. 

IX. 

The great Creator to revere. 

Must sure become the creature ; 
But still the preaching cant forbear, 

And ev'n the rigid feature : 
Yet ne'er with wits profane to range, 

Be complaisance extended ; 
An Atheist's laugh's a poor exchange 

For Deity offended ! 



When ranting round in pleasure's ring. 

Religion may be blinded ; 
Or, if she gie a random sting. 

It may be little minded : 
But when on life we're tempest-driv'n, 

A conscience but a canker — 
A correspondence fix'd wi' Heav'n, 

Is sure a noble anchor, 

XI. 
Adieu, dear, amiable youth ! 

Your heart can ne'er be wanting : 
May prudence, fortitude, and truth. 

Erect your brow undaunting ! 
In ploughman phrase, ' God send you speed,' 

Still daily to gi-ow wiser ; 
And may you better reck the rede. 

Than ever did th' adviser ! 



ON A SCOTCH BARD, 

GONE TO THE WEST INDIES. 

A' YE wha live by soups o' drink, 
A' ye wha live by crambo-clink, 
A' ye wha live and never think, 

Come mourn wi' me ! 
Our biUie's gi'en us a' a jink, 

An' owre the sea. 

Lament him a' ye rantin core, 
Wha dearly like a random-splore, 
Nae mair he'll join the merry roar, 
In social key; 



For now he's ta'en anlthir shore, 

An' owre the «ea. 

The bonnie lassies weel may wiss him, 
And in their dear petitions place him : 
The widows, wives, an' a' may bless him, 

Wi' tearfu' e'e ; 
For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him. 

That's owre the sea. 

O Fortune, they ha'e room to grumble ! 
Hadst thou ta'en aff some drowsy bumme]« 
Wha can do nought but fyke an' fumble, 
'Twad been nae plea 
But he was -gleg as ony wumble. 

That's owre the sea. 

Auld, cantie Kyle may weepers wear, 
An' stain them wi' the saut, saut tear ; 
Twill mak' her poor auld heart, I fear, 

In flinders flee ; 
He was her laureat monie a year. 

That's owre the aea. 

He saw misfortune's cauld nor^wast 
Lang mustering up a bitter blast ; 
A jillet brak' his heart at last, 

111 may she be ! 
So, took a birth afore the mast. 

An* owre the ses. 

To tremble under Fortnne's commock. 
On scarce a bellyfix' o* drummock, 
Wi' his proud, independent stomach 

Could ill agree ; 
So, row't his hurdles in a hammock, 
An* owre the sea. 

He ne'er was gi'en to great misgnidiog 
Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in ; 
Wi' him it ne'er was under hiding ; 

He dealt it free : 
The muse was a' that he took pride in. 

That's owre the sea. 

Jamaica todies, use him weel. 
An' hap him in a cozie biel ; 
Ye'U find him aye a dainty chiel, 

And fu' o' glee : 
He wadna wrang'd the vera deil. 

That's owre the sea. 

Fareweel, my rhyme-composing hiUiei 
Your native soil vvas right ill-wiUie ; 
But may ye flourish like a lily, 

Now bonnilie ; 
I'll toast ye in my hindmost gillie, 

Tho' owre the sea. 



TO A HAGGIS. 

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face. 
Great chieftain o' the puddin-race ! 



POEMS. 



41 



Abooa th«m a' ye tak your place, 

Paincb, tripe, or thairm : 
Weel are ye wordy of a grace 

As lang'fi my arm. 

The groaning trencher there ye fill, 
Your hurdies like a distant hill, 
Your pin wad help to mend a mill 

In time o' need, 
While thro* your pores the dews distil 

Like amber bead. 

His knife see rustic labour dight. 
An* cut you up wi' ready slight, 
Trenching your gushing entrails bright, 

Like onie ditch ; 
And then, O what a glorious sight, 

Warm-reekin', rich ! 

Then horn for horn they stretch an' strive, 
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive, 
Till a* their weel-swall'd kytes belyve 

Are bent like drums ; 
Then auld guidman, maist like to ryve, 

Bethankit hums. 

Is there that o*er his French ragout, 
Or olio that wad staw a sow, 
Ot fricassee wad mak her spew 

Wi' perfect sconner, 
Looks down wi* sneering, scornfu' view, 

On sic a dinner ? 

Poor devil ! see him owre his trash. 
As feckless as a wither'd rash. 
His spindle-shank a guid whip-lash, 

His nieve a nit ; 
Thro* bloody flood or field to dash, 

O how unfit ! 

But mark the rustic, haggis-fed. 
The trembling earth resounds his tread, 
Clap in his walie nieve a blade, 

He'll make it whissle ; 
An' 1^, an' arms, an heads will sned. 
Like taps o' thrissle. 

Ye Pow'rs wha mak mankind your care, 
Aad dish them out their bill o' fare, 
Auld Scotland wants na skinking ware 

That jaups in luggies ; 
But, if ye wish her gratefu' pray'r, 

Gie her a Haggis ! 



A DEDICATION. 

TO GAVIN HAMlLTOf, ESQ. 

ExrECT na, Sir, in this narration, 
A fleechin, fleth'rin dedication. 
To rooze you up, an' ca' you guid, 
An' sprung o' great an' noble bluid. 
Because ye're surnamed like his grace) 
Perhaps related to the race ; 



Then when I'm tired — and sae are ye, 
Wi' mony a fulsome, sint'u' lie. 
Set up a face, how I stop short, 
For fear your modesty be hurt. 

This may do-^ — maun do. Sir, wi* them wha 
Maun please the great fo'.k for a wamefu* ; 
For me ! sae laigh I ncodna bow, 
For, Lord be thankit, / can plough ; 
And when I downa yoke a naig, 
Then, Lord be thankit, I cart beg ; 
Sae I shall say, and that's nae flatt'rin*. 
It's just sic poet an' sic patron. 

The Poet, some giiid angel help him, 
Or else, I fear some ill ane skelp him ; 
He may do weel for a' he's done yet. 
But only he's no just begun yet. 

The Patron, (Sir, ye maun forgie me, 
I winna lie, come what will o' me) 
On ev'ry hand it will allowed be. 
He's just — nae better than he should be, 

I readily and freely grant. 
He downa see a poor man want ; 
What's no his ain he winna tak it, 
What ance he says he winna break it ; 
Ought he can lend he'll no refuse' 
Till aft his goodness is abused ; 
And rascals whyles that do him wrang, 
Ev'n that, he does na mind it lang ; 
As master, landlord, husband, father 
He does na fail his part ia either. 

But then, nae thanks to him for a' that ; 
Nae godly symptom ye can ca' that ; 
It's naething but a milder feature. 
Of our poor, sinfu' corrupt nature : 
Ye'll get the best o' moral works, 
'iMang black Gentoos and pagan Turks, 
Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi, ; 
Wha never heard of orthodoxy. 
That he's the poor man's friend in need, 
The gentleman in word and deed. 
It's no thro' terror of damnation ; 
It's just a carnal inclination. 

jMorality, thou deadly bane. 
Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain ! 
Vain is his hope, whose stay and trust is 
In moral mercy, truth, and justice ' 

No — stretch a point to catch a plack ; 
Abuse a brother to his back ; 
Steal thro* a winnock frae a wh-re. 
But point the rake that taks the door : 
Be to the poor like onie whunstane. 
And baud their noses to the grunstane ; 
Ply ev'ry art o* legal thieving ; 
No matter, stick to sound believing. 

Learn three mile pray*rs, an* half-mile graces, 
Wi' weel-spread looves, an' lang wry faces • 
Grunt up a solemn, lengthen'd groan. 
And damn a' parties but your own j 



26 



42 



BURNS* WORKS. 



I'll warrant then, ye' re Die (Receiver, 
A steady, sturdy, staunch believer. 

O ye wha leave the spriugs of Calvin, 
For gumlie dubs of your aia delvia ! 
Ye sons of heresy and error, 
Ye'll some day sqiieel in quaking terror ! 
When vengeance draws the sword in wrath, 
And in the fire throws the sheath ; 
When ruin, with his sweeping besom. 
Just frets till Heav'n commission gies him : 
While o'er the harp pale Misery moans, 
And strikes the ever-deep'ning tones. 
Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans ! 

Your pardon, Sir, for this digression, 
I noaist forgat my dedication ; 
But when divinity comes cross me, 
jly readers still arc sure to lose me. 

So, Sii-, ye see 'twas uae daft vaf)our. 
But 1 maturely thought it proper, 
When a' my works 1 did review. 
To dedicate them. Sir, to Yoti : 
Because (ye need na tak it ill) 
I thought them something like yoursel'. 

Then patronise them wi* your favour, 
And your petitioner shall ever — 
I had amaist said ever pray. 
But that's a word I need na say : 
For prayin' I hae little skill o't; 
I'm baith dead-sweer, an' wretched ill o't ; 
But I'se repeat each poor man's prayer. 
That tens or hears about you, Sir — 

" May ne'er misfortune's gowliug bark, 
Howl thro' the dwelling o' the Clerk ! 
May ne'er his gen'rous, honest heart, 
For that same gen'rous spirit smart ! 

May K 's far honour'd name 

Lang beet his hymeneal flame. 

Till H s, at least a dizen, 

Are frae her nuptial labours risen : 
Five bonnie lasses round their table. 
And seven braw fellows, stout an' aide 
To »erve their king and country weel, 
By word, or pen, or pointed steel I 
May health and peace, with mutual rays. 
Shine on the evening o' his days ; 
Till his wee curlie Johns ier-oe. 
When ebbing life nae mair shall flow. 
The last, sad, mournful rites bestow !" 

I will not wind a lang conclusion, 
Wi' complimentary effusion ; 
But whilst your wishes and endeavours 
Are bhst with Fortune's smiles and favours, 
I am, dear Sir, with zeal most fervent, 
Your much indebted, humble servant. 

But if (which Pow'rs above prevent !) 
That iron-hearted carl, Want, 
Attended in his grim advances. 
By sad mistakes, and black mischances, 



While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly lum, 

Make you as poor a dog as I am, 

Your humble servant then no more ; 

For who would humbly serve the poor ! 

But, by a poor man's hopes in Heavea ! 

While recollection's power is given. 

If, in the vale of humble life. 

The victim sad of fortune's strife, 

I, thro' the tender gushing tear. 

Should recognize my master dear. 

If friendless, low, we meet together. 

Then, Sir, your hand — my friend and brother I 



TO A LOUSE 

ox SEEIKG ONE OK A LADy's BONNEX AT 
CHURCH. 

Ha ! whare ye gauu, ye crowlin' ferlic ? 
Your impudence protects you sairly : 
I canna say but ye sti-unt rarely, 

Owre gauze and lace ; 
Tho' faith, I fear ye dine but sparely 

On sic a place. 

Ye ugly, creepin', blastit wonner, 
Detested, shunn'd by saunt an' sinner, 
How dare you set your fit upon her, 

Sae fine a lady ! 
Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner. 

On some poor body. 

Swith, in some beggar's ha£fet squattle ; 
There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle 
Wi' ithcr kindred, jumpin' cattle. 

In shoals and nations ; 
Whare horn nor bane ne'er dare unsettle 

Your thick plantations. 

Now hand you there, ye're out o' sight. 
Below the fatt'rils, snug and tight : 
Na, faith ye yet ! ye'll no be right 

Till ye've got on it. 
The vera tapmost, tow'ring height 

O' Miss's bonnet. 

My sooth ! right bauld ye set your nose out, 
As plump and grey as ony grozet ; 

for some rank, mercurial rozet. 

Or fell, red smeddum, 
I'd gi'e you sic a hearty dose o't. 

Wad dress your droddum ! 

1 wad na been surprised to spy 
You on an auld wife's flannen toy ; 
Or aiblins some bit duddie boy, 

On's wyliecoat ; 
But Miss's fine Lunardie ! fie. 

How dare ye do't ! 

O, Jenny, dinna toss your head, 
An' set your beauties a' abread ! 
Ye little ken what cursed speed 

The blastie's makin' ! 



POEMS- 



43 



TLae winks and Jinger-tnds, I dread, 
Are notice takiu' ! 

O wad some power the giftie gie us 
To see ourscls as others sec its ! 
It wad frae monie a blmulcr free us, 

ADd foolish notion : 
'What airs ja dress an' gait wad lea'e us, 

And ev'n Devotion ! 



ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH. 



I. 

Edina ! Scotia s darling seat ! 

All hail thy palaces and towers. 
Where once beneath a monarch's feet 

Sat legislation's sovereign pow'vs ! 
From marking wiklly-scatter'd flow'rs, 

As on the banks of At/t I stray'd, 
And singing, lone, the ling'riug houis, 

I shelter in thy honour'd shade. 

II. 
Here wealth still swells the golJeu tide, 

As busy trade liis labours plies ; 
There architecture's noble pride 

Bids elegance and splendour rise ; 
Here justice, from lier native skies, 

High wields her balance and her rod ; 
There learning, with his eagle eyes, 

Seeks science in her coy abode. 

III. 

Thy sons, Edina, social, kind, 

With open arms the stranger hail ; 
Their views enlarged, their liberal mind, 

Above the narrow, rural vale ; 
Attentive still to sorrow's wail, 

Or modest merit's silent claim ; 
And never may their sources fail ! 

And never envy blot their name. 

IV. 

Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn I 

Gay as the gilded summer sky, 
Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn, 

Dear as the raptured thrill of joy ! 
Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye. 

Heaven's beauties on my fancy shine : 
I see the sire of love on high. 

And own his work indeed divine ! 



There, watching high the least alarms. 

Thy rough rude fortress gleams afar ; 
Like some bold veteran, grey in arms. 

And mark'd with many a seamy scar : 
The pon'drous wall and massy bar, 

Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock ; 
Have oft withstood assailing war, 

And oft repell'd the invader's shock. 



VI. 



With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears, 

I view that noble, stately dome. 
Where Scotia's kings of other years, 

Famed heroes, had their royal home. 
Alas ! how changed the times to come ! 

Their royal name low in the dust ! 
Their hapless race wild-wand'ring roam ! 

Tho' rigid law cries out, 'twas just ! 

VII. 
Wild beats my heart to trace your steps. 

Whose ancestors in days of yore. 
Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps 

Old Scotia's bloody lion bore : 
E'en /who sing in rustic lore. 

Haply nuj sires have left their shed, 
And faced grim danger's loudest roar. 

Bold-following where gour fathers led ! 

VIII. 

Jlj'IN'a ! /Scotia's darling seat ! 

All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, 
\\')iere once beneath a monarch's feet 

Sat legislation's sov'reign pow'rs ! 
From marking wildly-scatter'd flow'rs. 

As on the banks of Ai/r I stray'd, 
And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, 

I shclter'd iu thy hoaour'd shade. 



EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK, 

AN OLD SCOTTISU EAKD, AI-BIL 1st, 1785. 

While briers an' woodbines budding green, 
An' paitricks scraichin loud at e'en. 
An' morning poussie whiddin seen, 

Inspire my muse. 
This freedom in an unknown frien' 

I pray excuse. 

On fasten-een we had a rockin*, 
To ca' the crack and weave our stockin' ; 
And there was muckle fun and jokin'. 

Ye need na doubt : 
At length we had a hearty yokin* 

At sang about. 

There was ae sang amang the rest, 
Aboon them a' it pleased me best, 
That some kind husband had addrest 

To some sweet wife : 
It thirl'd the heart-strings thro' the breast, 

A* to the life. 

I've scarce heard ought described sae weel, 
What gen'rous, manly bosoms feel ; 
Thought I, ' Can this be Pope, or Steele, 

Or Beattie's wark ?' 
They tald me 'twas an odd kind chiel 
, About Muirkirk, 

It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't. 
And sae about him there i spier^ 



44 



BURNS* WORKS. 



Then a' that ken't him round declared 
He had ing'ine. 

That nane excell'd it, few cam near't, 
It was sae fine. 

That bet him to a pint of ale, 
An' either douce or merry tale, 
Or rhymes an' sangs he'd made hirasel', 

Or witty catches, 
'Tween Inverness and Teviotdale, 

He had few matches. 

Then up I gat, an' swoor an aith, 
Tho' I should pawn my pleugh an' gi'aith, 
Or die a cadger pownie's death. 

At some dyke back, 
A pint an' gill I'd gie them baith 

To hear your crack. 

But, first an' foremost, I should tell, 
Amaist as soon as I could spell, 
I to the crambo-jingle fell, 

Tho' rude and rough, 
Yet crooning to a body's sel' 

Docs weel eneugh. 

I am uae poet, in a sense, 
But just a rhymer, like, by chance. 
An' hae to learning nae pretence, 

Yet, what the matter ? 
Whene'er my muse does on me glance, 

I jingle at her. 

Your critic folk may cock their nose, 

And say, ' How can you e'er propose, 

You wha ken hardly verse frae prose, 

To mak a sang ?' 

But, by your leaves, my learned foes, 

Ye're may be wrang. 

MTiat's a' your jargon o' your schools. 
Your Latin names for horns an' stools ; 
If honest nature made you fools, 

What sairs your grammars? 
Ye'd better taeu up spades and shools. 

Or knappin-hammers. 

A set o' dull conceited hashes. 
Confuse their brains in college classes ! 
They gang in stirks, and come out asses. 

Plain truth to speak ; 
An' syne they think to climb Parnassus 

By dint o* Greek ! 

Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire ! 
That's a' the learning I desire ; 
Then tho' I drudge thro* dub an' mire 

At pleugh or cart, 
My muse, though hamely in attire. 

May touch the heart. 

O for a spunk o' Allan^s glee, 
Or Ferguson's, the bauld and slee. 
Or bright Lapraik's, my friend to be, 
Iflcaahitit! 



That would be lear eneugh for me ! 
If I could get it. 

Now, Sir, if ye hae friends enow, 
Tho' real friends, I b'lieve are few. 
Yet, if your catalogue be fou, 

I'se no insist. 
But gif ye want ae fi-iend that's true, 

I'm on your list. 

I winna blaw about myscl ; 
As ill I like my faults to tell ; 
But friends, and folk that wish me well. 

They sometimes roose me ; 
Tlio' I maun own, as monie still 

As far abuse me. 

There's ae wee faut they whyles lay te me, 
I like the lasses — Guid forgie me ! 
For monie a plack they wheedle frae me, 

At dance or fair ; 
May be some iflier thing they gie me 

Tliey weel can spare. 

But Mauchline race, or Mavchline fair, 
I should be proud to meet you there ; 
We'se gie ae night's discharge to care. 

If we forgather, 
An' hae a swap o' rhyming-ware 

Wi' ane anither. 

The four-gill chap, we'se gar him clatter, 
An' kirsen him wi' reckin' water ; 
Syne we'll sit down an' tak our whitter. 
To cheer our heart ; 
An' faith we'se be acquainted better 
Before we part. 

Awa ye selfish warly race, 
Wha think that liavins, sense, an' grace, 
Ev'n love and friendship, should give place 

To catch the plack ! 
I dinna like to see your face, 

Nor hear your crack. 

But ye whom social pleasure charms. 
Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms. 
Who hola your being on the terms, 

' Each aid the others,* 
Come to my bowl, come to my arms. 

My friends, my brothers ! 

But, to conclude my lang epistle, 
As my auld pen's worn to the grissle ; 
Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle, 

"^Vho am, most fervent. 
While I can either sing, or whissle, 

Youi- friend and servant. 



POEMS. 



45 



TO THE SAME. 

APRIL 21, 1785. 

While new-ca'd kye rout at the stake, 
An' pownies reek in pleugh or brake, 
This hour on e'enin's edge I take. 

To own I'm debtor 
To honest-hearted auld Lapraik 

For his kind letter. 

Forjesket sair, with weary legs, 
Rattlin' the corn out-owre the rigs, 
Or dealing thro* amang the naigs 

Their ten hours bite. 
My awkart muse sair pleads and begs, 

I would na write. 

The tapetless rarafeezl'd hizzie, 
She's saft at best, and something lazy, 
Quo' she, ' Ye ken, we've been sac busy, 

This month an' mair. 
That trouth my head is grown right dizzie, 

An' soinething sair.' 

Her dowff excuses pat rae mad ; 
' Conscience,* says I, ' ye thowless jad ! 
I'll write, an' that a hearty blaud, 

This vera night ; 
So dinna ye affront your trade. 

But rhyme it right. 

' Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o' hearts, 
Tho* mankind were a pack o' cartes, 
Roose you sae weel for your deserts. 

In terms sae friendly, 
Yet yell neglect to shaw your parts, 

An' thank him kindly !' 

Sae I gat paper in a blink. 
An' down gaed stumpie in the ink : 
Quoth I, ' Before I sleep a wink, 

I vow I'll close it ; 
An' if ye winna mak' it clink. 

By Jove I'll prose it !' 

Sae I've begun to scrawl, but whether 
In rhyme, or prose, or baith thegither. 
Or some hotch-potch that's rightly neither, 

Let time mak proof ; 
But I shall scribble down some blether 
Just clean aff loof. 

My worthy friend, ne'er grudge an' caip 
Tho* fortune use you hard an' sharp ; 
Come, kittle up your moorland harp 

Wi' gleesonie touch ! 
Ne'er mind how Fortune ivafl and jvarp ; 
She's but a b-tch. 

She's gien me mouie a jirt and flcg. 
Sin* I could striddle owre a rig ; 
But, by the L — d, tho' I should beg, 
Wi' lyart pow, 



I'll laugh, an' siug, an' shake my leg. 
As land's I dow ! 



Now comes the sax and twentieth simmer, 
I've seen the bud upo' the tiramer, 
Still persecuted by the limmer, 

Frae year to year ; 
But yet, despite the kittle kimmer, 

/, Hob, am here. 

Do ye envy the city Gent, 
Behint a kist to lie and sklent. 
Or purse-proud, big wi' cent, per cent. 

And" muckle wame, 
In some bit brugh to represent 

A JBailie's name ? 

Or is't the paughty feudal thane, 
V/i' ruffled sark and glancin' cane, 
Wha thinks himself nae sheep-shank bane, 

But lordly stalks, 
Wliile caps an' bonnets aff are taen. 
As by he walks .' 

' * O Tliou wha gies us each guid gift ! 
Gie me o' wit and sense a lift. 
Then turn me, if Thou please, adrift 

Thro' Scotland wide : 
Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna shift, 

In a' their pride !' 

Were this the charter of our state, 
• On pain o' hell be rich and great,' 
Damnation then would be our fate, 

Beyond remead ; 
But, thanks to Heav'n ! that's no the gate 

We learn our creed. 

For thus t'he royal mandate ran, 
When first the human race began, 
' The social, friendly, honest man, 

Whate'er he be, 
'Tis he fulfils great Nature's plan, 

An' none but he !' 

O mandate glorious and divine ! 
The ragged followers o' the Nine, 
Poor, thoughtless devils ! yet may shine 

In glorious light, 
^Vhile sordid sons of JMamraon's line 

Ajie dark as night. 

Tho' here they scrape, an' squeeze, an' s^WV^ 
Their worthless nievefu' o' a soul 
May in some future carcase howl 

The forest's fright ; 
Or in some day-detesting owl 

I\Iay shun the light. 

Then may Lapraik and Burns arise. 

To reach their native, kinched skies, 
And sinff their pleasures, hopes, and joys, 

In some mild sphere. 
Still closer knit in friendship's ties. 

Each pa.'-sing year. 



46 



BimNS' WORKS. 



TO W. S. 



-N, 



OCHlttKEB* 

May 1785. 
1 OAT your letter, winsome Willie : 
Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie ; 
Tho' I maun say't, J wad be silly, 

An' unco vain, 
Should I believe, my coaxin' billie. 

Your flatteiin' strain. 

But I'se believe ye kindly meant it, 
1 sud be laith to think ye hinted 
Ironic satire, sidelins sklented 

On my poor music ; 
Tho' in 8ic phraisin' terms ye've penn'd it, 

I scarce excuse ye. 

My senses wad be in .i creel. 
Should I but dan; a hope to spccl, 
Wi' Allan or wi' Gilbert field, 

The braes of fame ; 
Or Ferguson, the writer chiel, 

A deathless name. 

(0 Ferguson ! thy glorious parts 
Dl suited law's dry, musty arts ! 
My curse upon your whunstanc hearts, 

Yc E'nbrugli Gentry ! 
The tithe o' what ye waste at cartes. 

Wad stow'd his pantry !) 

Yet when a talc comes i' my head, 
Or lasses jjie my heart a screed, 
As wbyles they're like to be my dead, 

(O sad disease !) 
I kittle up my rustic reed ; 

It gles me case. . 

Auld Coila now may fidge fu' fain, 
She's gotten poets o' her ain, 
Chiels Wha their chanters winna bain, 

But tune their lays, 
Till echoes a' resound again 

Her weel-sung praise. 

Nae poet thought her worth his while, 
To set her name in measured style ; 
She lay like some unkenned of isle 

Beside New-Holland, 
Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil 

Besouth Magellan, 

Ramsay an' famous Ferguson 
Gied Forth an' Tay a lift aboon ; 
Yarrow an' Tweed to monie a tune, 

Owre Scotland rings, 
While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an' Doon, 
Nae body sings. 

Th' Tlissus, Tiber, Thames, an' Seine, 
Glide sweet in monie a tunefu' line ! 
But, Willie, set your fit to mine, 

An' cock your crest, 



We'll gar our streams and burnles sliiilfl 
Up wi' the best. 

We'll sing auld Coila's plains an' fell3> 
Her moors red-brown wi' heather bells, 
Her banks an' braes, her dens an' dells, 

Wicre glorious Wallace 
Aft bure the grec, as story tells, 

Frae southern billies. 

At Wallace'' name what Scottish blood 
But boils up in a spring-tide flood ! 
Oft have our fearless fathers strode 

By Wallace' side, 
Still pressing onward, red-wat shod, 
Or glorious died. 

O sweet are Coila s hauglis an' woods, 
Wlien lintwhites chant among the buds. 
An' jinkin hares, in amorous whids. 

Their loves enjoy, 
While thro' the braes the cushat crood3 

With wailfu* cry ! 

Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me 
When winds rave thro' the naked tree ; 
Or frost on hills of Ochiltree 

Are hoary grey ; 
Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee, 

Dark'ning the day ! 

O Nature ! a' thy shows an' forms 
To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms ! 
Whether the summer kindly warms 

Wi' life an' light. 
Or winter howls, in gusty storms, 

The lang, dark night ! 

The Muse, nae poet c%'er fand her, 
Till by himsel he learn'd to wander, 
Adown some trotting burn's meander. 

An' no think lang ; 
O sweet, to stray, an' pensive ponder 

A heartfelt sang ! 

The warly race may drudge and drive, 
Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch, an' strive, 
Let me fair Nature's face descrive, 

And I, wi' pleasure, 
Shall let the busy, grumbling hive 

Bum o'er their treasure. 

Fareweel, * my rhyme-composing brithcr ! 
We've been owre lang imkenn'd to ither : 
Now let us lay our heads thegither, 

In love fraternal : 
May Envy wallop in a tether, 

Black fiend, infernal ! 

Wliilc highlandmen hate tolls and taxes; 
While moorlan' herds like guid fat braxies ; 
While terra tirma on her axis 

Diurnal turns. 
Count on a friend, in faith and practice, 

In Robert Burnt, 



POEMS. 



4n 



POSTSCRIPT. 

Mv memoiy's no worth ft preen } 
I had amaist forgotten clean, 
Ye bade me write you what they mean 

By this new-light, * 
*Bout which our Iierds sae aft hae been 

Maist like to fight- 
In days when mankind were but callana 
At grammar, logic, an' sic talents, 
They took nae pains their speech to balance, 

Or rules to gi'e, 
But spak their thoughts in plain braid lallaua, 

Like you or me. 

In thae auld times, they thought the moortf 
Just like a sark, or pair o' shoon. 
Wore by degrees, till her last roon, 

Gaed past their viewing^ 
An' shortly after she was done. 

They gat a new ane. 

This past for certain, undisputed ; 
It ne'er cam i' their heads to doubt it, 
Till chiels gat up an* wad confute it. 

An* ca*d it wrang ; 
An' muckle din there was about it, 

Baith Joud an' lang. 

Some herds, wecl learn 'd upo* the beuk, 
Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk; 
For 'twas the auld moon turn'd a ncuk. 

An' out o' sight, 
An' backlins-comin', to the leuk, 

She grew mair bright. 

This was deny'd, it was affirm'd ; 
The herds and hissels were alarm'd ; 
The rev'rend grey-beards lav'd an' storm'd, 

That beardless laddies; 
Should think they better were inform'd 

Than their auld daddies. 

Froe less to mair it gaod to sticks ; 
Frae words an' aith» to clours an' nicks j 
An' monie a fallow gat his licks, 

Wi' hearty crunt; 
An' some, to learn them for their tricks, 

Were hang'd an' br\int, 

Thia game was play'd in monie lands, 
An' auld-Ught caddies bure sic hands, 
That faith, the youngsters took the sands. 

Wi' nimble shanks. 
Till lairds forbade, by strict commands, 

Sicbluidy pranks. 

But tma-light herds gat sic a cowe. 
Folk thought them ruin'd stick-an'-stowe, 
Till now amaist on ev'ry knowc, 

Ye'U find ane plac'd ; 



• See Note, p. 14. 



An' some, their nm-ti^ht fair avow. 

Just qujite barefac'd. 

I^ae doubt the auld-Ught floch are bleafin' } 
Their zealous herds are vex'd an' sweatin' ; 
Mysel, I've even seen them greetin' 

Wi' girnin' spite. 
To hear the moon sae sadly lie'd on 

By word an' write. 

But shortly they will cowe the louns ! 
Some aidd-light herds in ncebor towns 
Are mind't, in things they ca' balloons, 

To tak' a flight. 
An' stay a month amang the moons 

An' see them right. 

Guid observation they will gie them ; 
An' when the auld moon's gaun to lea'e them, 
The hindmost shaird, they'll fetch it wi' them, 

Just i' their pouch. 
An' when the new-light billies see them, 

I think they'll crouch ! 

Sae, ye observe that a' this clatter 
Is naething but a ' moonshine matter ;' 
But tho' dull prose-folk Latin splatter 

In logic tulzie, 
I hope, we bardies ken some better 

Than mind sic brulzift 



EPISTLE TO J. RANKINE, 

^, ENCLOSING SOME POEMS. 

O ROUGH, rude, ready-witted Rankine. 
The wale o' cocks for fun and drinkin' ! 
There's mony godly folks are thinkin', 

Your dreams • an' tricka 
Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin'. 

Straight to auld Nick's. 

Ye ha'e sae monie cracks an' cants 
And in your wicked, drucken rants. 
Ye mak' a devil o' the saunts, 

An' fill them fou ; 
And then their failings, flaws, an' wants, 
Are a* seen t'uro'. 

Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it ! 
That holy robe, O dinna tear it ! 
Spare't for their sakes wha afteu wear it, 

The lads in lilack ! 
But your curst wit, when it comes near it, 
Rives't aff their back. 

Think, wicked sinner, wha ye're skaithing, 
It's just the blue-gown badge an* claithing 
O' saunts ; tak that, ye lea'e them naething 
To ken them by. 



* A certain humorous dream of h!3 was then mak 
ing a noise in the oountry-«ide. 



48 

Frae ony unr^enerate heatten 

Like you or I. 

Fve sent you here some rhyming ware, 
A' that I bargain'd for aa' mair ; 
Sae, when you hae an hour to spare,' 

I will expect 
Yon sanff,* ye'll sen't wi' cannie care. 

And no neglect. 

Tho* faith, sma' heart hae I to sing ! 
My muse dow scarcely spread her wing ! 
I've play'd mysel a bonnie spring. 

An danc'd my fill ! 
I'd better gaen and sair'd the king 

At Bunker's Hill. 

*Twas ae night lately in my fun, 

I gaed a roving wi' the gun, 

An' brought a paitrick to the grun, 

A bonnie hen. 
And, as the twilight was begun, 

Thought nane wad ken. 

The poor wee thing was little hurt ; 
I straikit it a wee for sport. 
Ne'er thinkin' they wad fash me for't ; 

But, deil-ma care ! 
Somebody tells the poacher-court 

The hale affair. 

Some auld us'd hands had ta'en a note. 
That sic a hen had got a shot ; 
I was suspected for the plot ; 

I scorn'd to lie ; 
So gat the whissle o' my groat, 

An' pay't thej^e. 

But, by my gun, o' guns the wale. 
An' by my pouther an' my hail. 
An' by my hen, an' by her tail, 

J vow an' swear ! 
The game shall pay o'er moor an' dale. 

For this, niest year. 

As Eoon's the clockin' time is by. 
An' the wee pouts begun to cry, 
L — d, I'se hae sportin' by an' by. 

For my gowd guinea : 
Tho' I should herd the buckskin kyc 

For't, in Virginia. 

Trowth, they had meikle for to blame ! 
'Twas neither brokcu wing nor limb. 
But twa-three draps about the wame, 

Scarce thro* the feathsn ; 
An' baith a yellow George to claim, 

An' thole their blethers ! 

It pits me aye as mad's a hare ; 
So I can rhyme nor write nae mair, 
But pennyworths again is fair. 

When time's expedient : 
Meanwhile I am, respected Sir, 

Your most obedient. 



BURNS' WORKS. 



• A »07i^ he had promised the Author. 



wftirriH t» 

FRIARS CARSE HERMITAGE, 

ON NITH-SIttS. 

Thoit whom chance may hither lead, 
Be thou clad in russet weed. 
Be thou deckt in silken stole, 
Grave these counsels on thy soul. 

Life is but a day at most. 
Sprung from night, in darkness lost ; 
Hope not sunshine every hour, 
Fear not clouds will always lour. 

As youth and love with sprightly dance, 
Beneath thy morning star advance. 
Pleasure with her siren air 
May delude the thoughtless pair ; 
Let prudence bless enjoyment's cup. 
Then raptur'd sip, and sip it up. 

As thy day grows warm and high. 
Life's meridian flaming nigh. 
Dost thou spmn the humble vale ? 
Life's proud summits wouldst thou scale ? 
Check thy climbing step, elate. 
Evils lurk in felon wait : 
Dangers, eagle-pinion'd, bold, 
Soar around each cliffy hold. 
While cheerful peace, with linnet song, 
Chants the lowly dells among. 

As the shades of ev'ning close, 
Beck'ning thee to long repose : 
As life itself becomes disease, 
Seek the chimney-neuk of ease. 
There ruminate with sober thought, 
On all thou'st seen, and heard, and wrought , 
And teach the sportive younker'g round. 
Saws of experience, sage and sound. 
Say, man's true, genuine estimate, 
The grand criterion of his fate. 
Is not, Art thou high or low ? 
Did thy fortune ebb or flow ? 
Did many talents gild thy span ? 
Or frugal nature grudge thee one ? 
Tell them, and press it on their mind, 
As thou thyself must shortly find. 
The smile or frown of awful Heav'n, 
To virtue or to vice is giv'n. 
Say, to be just, and kind, and wise. 
There solid self-enjoyment lies ; 
That foolish, selfish, faithless ways, 
Lead to the wretched, vile, and base. 

Thus resign'd and quiet, creep 
To the bed of lasting sleep ; 
Sleep, whence thou shalt ne'er awake, 
Night, where dawn shall never break. 
Till future life, future no more. 
To light and joy the good restore. 
To light and joy unknown before. 



POEMS. 



49 



Stranger, go ! Heav*ii be tliy guide ! 
Quod the beadsman of Nith-side. 



ODE, 

BACKED TO THE MEMORY OF MRJ. —' OF — 

DwELLEK. in yon dungeon dark, 
Hangman of creation ! mark 
AV'ho in widow-weeds appears, 
La.lcn with unhonoured years, 
IS'oosing with care a bursting purse, 
IJaited with many a deadly curse ! 

STROPHE. 

View the wither'd beldam's face- 
Can thy keen inspection trace 
Aught of humanity's sweet melting g;race? 
Not that eye, 'tis rheum o'erflows. 
Pity's flood there never rose 
See those hands, ne'er stretcb'd to save, 
Hands that took — but never gave. 
■ Keeper of Mammon's iron chest, 
Lo, there she goes, unpitied, and unblest ; 
She goes, but not to reolois of everlasting rest ! 

ANTISTROPHE. 

Plunderer of armies, lift thine eyes, 

( A while forbear, ye tort'ring fiends), 

Seesi. thou whose step unwilling hither bends? 

No fallen angel, hurl'd from upper skies j ^ 

'Tis thy trusty quondam mute, 

Doom'd to share thy fiery fate, 

She, tardy, hell-ward plies. 

EFODE. 

And are they of no more avail. 
Ten thousand glitt'ring pounds a-year ? 
In other worlds can Alammon fail. 
Omnipotent as he is here ? 
O, bitter mock'ry of the pompous Her, 
While down the wretched vital part is driv'n ! 
The cave-lodg'd beggar, with a conscience clear. 
Expires in rags, unknown, and goes to Heav'o. 



ELEGY 



CAPTAIN MATTHEW HENDERSON, 

I GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT FOR 
HIS HONOURS UIMEDIATELY FROM AL 
MIGHTY GOD ! 



But now his radiant course Is nm, 
For Matthew's couric was bright J 

His soul was like the glorious sun, 
A matchless, Hca\''nly light I 



O Death ! thou tyrant fell and bloody ; 
The mtikle devil wi a woodio 



Haurl thee hame to lils black smiddle, 

" O'er hurcbeon bides, 
And like stock-fish come o'er his studdle 
Wj' thy auld sides ! 

He's gane, )ie's gane ! he's frae us torn, 
The ae best fellow e'er was bom ! 
Thee, Matthew, Nature's sel shall mourn 

By wood and wild, 
Where, haply. Pity strays forlorn, 

Frae man exil'd. 

Ye hills, near neebors o' the starns. 
That proudly cock your cresting cairns ! 
Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing yearns. 

Where echo slumbers f 
Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns, 

Aly wailing numbers ; 

Mourn' ilka grove the cushat kens ! 
Ye haz'lly shaws and briery dens ! 
Ye burnies, wimplin down your glens, 

Wi* toddlin* din, 
Or foaming Strang, wi' hasty stens, 

Frae lin to Un. 

Mourn little harebells o'er the lee ; 
Ye stately fox-gloves fair to see ; 
Ye woodbines, hanging bonnilie 

In scented bow'rs ; 
Ye roses on your thorny tree. 

The first o' fiow'rs. 

At dawn, when ev'ry grassy blade 
Droops with a diamond at his head, 
At ev'n, when beans their fragrance shed, 

I' th' rustling gale, 
Ye maukins whiddin thro' the glade, 

Come join my waiL 

Mourn ye wee songsters o' the wood ; 
Ye grouse that crap the heather bud ; 
Ye curlews calling thro* a clud ; 

Ye whistling plover ; 
And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood ; 

He's gane for ever ! 

IMourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals ; 
Ye fisher herons, watching eels ; 
Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels 

Circling the lake ; 
Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels, 

Rair fur his sake. 

IMourn, clam'ring craiks at close o' dsjr, 
*Mang fields o' flow'ring clover gay ; 
And when ye wing your annual way 

Frae our cauld shore, 
Tell thae far worlds, wha lies in clay, 

Wham we deplorb 

Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow'r. 
In some auld tree, or eldritch tow'r, 
\Vhat time the moon, wi' silent glow r, 
Sets up her born| 

27 



50 



BURNS* WORKS. 



W»il tkro* ilie dreftrV tnUniglit koUf 

Till waukrijft mom I 

nvers, lorests, bills, and plains ! 
Oft have ye heard my canty strains i 
But how, what else for me remains 

But tales of woe ; 
An' {rat my een the drapping rains 

Maun ever flow. 

Mourn, spring, thou darling of the year ! 
Lie cowslip cup shall kep a tear : 
Thou, simmer, while each corny spear 
Shoots up its head, 
Thjr gay, green, flow'ry tresses shear, 

For him that's dead ! 

Thou, autumn, wi' thy yellow hair, 
In grief thy sallow mantle tear ! 
Thou, winter, hurling thro' the air 

The roaring blast. 
Wide o'er the naked world declare 

_^^^5_^ The worth we've lost ! 

Mourn him, thou sun, great source of light ! 
Mourn, empress of the silent night ! 
And yoo, ye twinkling stamies bright. 

My Matthew mourn ! 
For through your orbs he's ta'en his flight. 

Ne'er to return. 

O Henderson f the man, the brother ! 
And art thou gone, and gone for ever ! 
And hast thou cross'd that tmknown river, 

Life's dreary bound ! 
Like thee, where shall I find another, 

The world around ! 

Go to your sculptur'd tombs, ye Great, 
)a a' the tit^el trash o' state ! 
Bat by the honest turf I'll wait, 

Thou man of worth ! 
And weep the ae best fellow's fate 

E'er lay in «arth 



THE EPITAPH. 

Stop, passenger ! my story's brief ; 

And truth I shall relate, man : 
I tell nae common tale o' grief. 

For Matthew was a great man. 

If thoa uncommon merit hast, 

Yet spum'd at fortune's door, man'; 

A look of pity hither cast, 

For Matthew was a poor man. 

If thou a noble sodger art. 

That paseest by this grave, man ; 

There moulders here a gallant heart, 
For Matthew was a brave man. 

If thou on men, their works and ways, 
Cmat thivw uncommon light, man ; 



Mcta lie^ wliA xt&ti W woh tLy pithUt 
tot Matthew wai a bright man. 

If thou at friendship's sacred ca*, 
Wad life itself resign, man ; 

Thy sympathetic tear maun fa'. 
For Matthew was a kind man. 

If thou art staunch without a stain, 
Like the unchanging blue, man ; 

This was a kinsman o' thy ain, 
For Matthew was a true man. 

If thou hast wit, and fun, and fire. 
And ne'er guid wine did fear, man ; 

This was thy billie, dam, and sire, 
For Matthew was a queer man. 

If ony whiggish whingin sot. 

To blame poor Matthew dare, man ; 

May dool and sorrow be his lot. 
For Matthew was a rare man. 



LAMENT OF MARY QUEEN 
OF SCOTS, 

ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING. 

Now Nature hings her mantle green 

On every blooming tree. 
And spreads her sheets o' daisie<? white 

Out o'er the grassy lea : 
Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams, 

And glads the azure skies ; 
But nought can glad the weary wight 

That fast in durance lies. 

Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn. 

Aloft on dewy wing ; 
The merle, in his noontide bow'r. 

Makes woodland echoes ring ; 
The mavis mild wi' many a note. 

Sings drowsy day to rest : 
In.dove and freedom they rejoice, 

Wi* care nor thrall opprest. 

Now blooms the lily by the bank. 

The primrose down the brae ; 
The hawthorn's budding in the glen, 

And milk-white is the slae : 
The meanest hind in fair Scotland, 

May rove their sweets amang ; 
But I, the Queen of a' Scotland, 

Maun he in prison Strang. 

I was the Queen o' bonnie France, 

Where happy I hae been ; 
Fu' lightly raise I in the morn. 

As bhthe lay down at e'en : 
And Fm the sovereign of Scotland, 

And mony a traitor there ; 
Yet here I lie in foreign bands, 

And never ending care, ^ 



POEMS. 



&1 



Sul as for t'lee, tlioU iatse Wofflatl^ 

My Jister and my fae, 
Grim vengeance, yet, shall whet a sword 

That thfo* thy soul shall gae : 
The weeping blood in woman's breast 

Was never known to thee ; 
Nor th* balm that draps on wounds of woe 

Frae woman's pitying c'e. 

My son ! my son ! may kinder stars 

Upon thy fortune shine ; 
And may those pleasures gild thy reign, 

That neer wad blink on mine ! 
God keep thee frae thy mother's faes, 

Or turn tlieir hearts to thee ; 
And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend, 

Remember him for nie ! 

O ! soon, to me, may summer-suns 

Nae mair light up the morn ! 
Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds 

Wave o'er the yellow eoni ! 
And in the narrow Iiou'^e o' death 

Let winter round me rave ; 
And the next flow'rs that deck the spriii-;;;, 

Bloom on my peaceful grave. 



TO ROBERT GRAHAM. Esq. 

OF PIXTRA. 

Late crippled of an arm, and now a l>'cr. 
About to beg a pans for liMve to he:; ; 
Dull, listless, teas'd, dejeiKd. and cl>;j)rcst, 
(Nature is adverse to a cripple's rest) ; 
Will generous Graham list to his poet's v,-ail ? 
(It soothes poor misery, hearkenin'^ to hei 

tale), 
And hear him curse the light he first survey '<l. 
And doubly curse the luckless ihyming trade ? 

I Thou, Nature, partial Nature, I arraign ; 

Of thy caprice maternal I complain. 

The lion and the hull thy care have found, 
I One shakes the forest, and one spurns the 
I - ground : 

( Thou giv'st the ass his hide, the snail his shell, 
I Th' envenom'd wasp, victorious, guards his cell. 

Thy minions, kings defend, control, devour. 

In all th' omnipotence of rule and power 

' Foxes and statesmen, subtile wiles ensure; 

The cit and polecat stink, antl arc secure ; 
1 Toads with their poison, doctors with their 
drug, [snujj. 

The priest and hedge-hog, in their robes are 
I Ev'n silly woman has her warlike arts, [darts. 

Her tongue and eyes, her dreaded spear and 

But Oh ! thou bitter step-mother and hard. 

To thy poor, fenceless, nakerl child — the Bard ! 
I A thing unteachable in world's skill, 

And half an idiot too, more helpless still. 

N^o heels to bear him from the opening dun • 
jflo claws to dig, his hated sight to shun ; 



No horiiSj l)Ut lliosfi by luckless Myrrtdn \if6i\i. 
And those, alas ! not Amalthea's horn : 
No nerves olfactory. Mammon's trusty cUC^ 
Clad in rich dulness' comfortable fur, 
In naked feeling, and in aching pride. 
He bears th' unbroken blast from every side : 
Vampyre booksellers drain him to the heart. 
And svorpion critics cureless venom dart. 

Critics — appall'd, I venture on the name. 
Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame ; 
Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes ; 
He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose. 

His heart by causeless, wanton malice wrun", 
By blockheads' daring into madness stung; 
His well-won bays, than life itself more deaf. 
By miscreants torn, who ne'er one sprig must 

wear ; 
Foil'd, bleeding, tortur'd, in the unequal strife, 
Tl"! hapless poet flounders on through life, 
Till fled each hope that once his bosom fired, 
And fled each muse that glorious once inspired. 
Low sunk in squalid, unprotected age. 
Dead, even resentment, for his injured page. 
He heeds or feels no more the ruthless critic's 



So, by some hedge, the generous steed de- 
ceased, 
For half-starv'd snarling curs a dainty feast ; 
By toil and famine wore to skin and bone. 
Lies senseless of each tugging bitch's son. 

O dulnes-, ! portion of the truly blest ! 
Calm shell er'd haven of eternal rest ! 
Thy suns ne'er madden in the fierce extremes 
Of fortun<'"s polar frost, or torrid beams. 
If mantling high she fills the golden cup. 
With sober selHsh ease they sip it up ; [serve. 
Conscious the bounteous nieeil they well de- 
They only wonder ' some folks' do not starve. 
Thi' grave sage hern thus easy picks his frog. 
And thinks the mallard a sad worthless do". 
When disappointment snaps the clue of hope. 
And thro' disastrous night they darkling grope. 
With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear. 
And just conclude ' that fools are fortune's care.' 
So, heavy, passive to the tempest's shocks, 
Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox. 

Not so the idle muses' mad-cap train, 
Not such the workings of their moon-struck 

brain ; 
In equanimity they never dwell, 
By turns in soaring heaven, or vaulted hell. 

I dread thee, fate, relentless and severe. 
With all a poet's, husband's, father's fear ; 
Already one strong hold of hope is lost, 
Glencuirn, the truly noble, lies in dust ; 
(Fled, like the sun eclips'd .is noon appears, 
And left us darkling in a world of tears) : 
O ! hear my ardent, grateful, selfish pray'r f 
Fhttra. my other stay, long bless and spare J 



ftS 



BURNS* WORKS. 



Thro' a long life liia hopes and wishes crown, 
And bright in cloudless itkie* his sun go down ! 
May bliss domestic smooth his private path ; 
Give energy to life ; and soothe his latest breath, 
With many a filial tear circling the bed of 
death ! 



LAMENT FOR JAMES EARL 
OF GLENCAIRN. 

The wind blew hollow frae the hills, 

By fits the sun's departing beam 
Look'd on the fading yellow woods 

That wav'd o'er Lugar's winding stream : 
Beneath a craigy steep, a bard, 

Laden with years and meikle paiu, 
In loud lament bewail'd his lord. 

Whom death had all untimely ta'en. 

He lean'd him to an ancient aik, 

Whole trunk was mould'ring down with 
years ; 
His locks were bleached white wi' time. 

His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears ! 
And as he touch'd his trembling harp, 

And as he tun'd his doleful sang. 
The winds, lamenting thro' their caves, 

To echo bore the notes alang. 

" Ye scatter'd birds that faintly sing. 

The relics of the vernal quire ! 
Ye woods that shed on a' tlie winds 

The honours of the aged year ! 
A few short months, and glad and gay. 

Again ye'U charm the ear and e'c ; 
But Docht in all revolving time 

Can gladness bring again to me. 

«' I am a bending aged tree. 

That long has stood the wind and rain ; 
But now has come a cruel blast, 

And my last hald of earth is gane : 
Nae leaf o* mine shall greet the spring, 

Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom ; 
But I maun lie before the storm, 

And ithers plant them in my room. 

" I've Been sae mony changcfu' years, 

On earth I am a stranger grown ; 
I wander in the ways of men. 

Alike unknowing and unknown : 
Unheard, unpitied, unrelieved, 

I bear alane my lade o' care, 
For silent, low, on beds of dust, 

Lie a' that would my sorrows ehara 

" And last, (the sum of a' my griefe) .' 

My noble master lies in clay ; 
The flow'r amang our barons bold, 

His country's pride, his country's stay : 
In weary being now I pine, 

For a' the life of life is dead, 
And hope has left ray aged ken. 

On forward wing for ever fled, 



" Awake thy last sad voice, my harp • 

The voice of woe and wild despair I 
Awake, resound thy lat<;«t lay, 

Then sleep in silence everinair ! 
And thou, my last, best, only frienct, 

That fiUest an untimely tomb. 
Accept this tribute from the bard 

Thou brought from fortune's mirkest gloom 

" In poverty's low barren vale. 

Thick mists, obscure, involv'd me round ; 
Tho' oft I turn'd the wistful eye, 

Nae ray of fame was to be found : 
Thou found'st me like the morning sun 

That melts the fogs in limpid air. 
The friendless bard and rustic song. 

Became alike thy fostering care. 

" O ! why has worth so short a date ? 

While villains ripen grey with time ! 
l\Iust thou, the noble, gen'rous, great, 

Fall in bold manhood's hardy prime ! 
Why did I live to see that day ? 

A day to me so full of wo? ! 
O ! had I met the mortal shaft 

Which laid my beneftctor low ! 

" The bridegroom may forget the bride 

Was made his wedded wife yestreen ; 
The monarch may forget the crown 

That on his head an hour has been ; 
The mother may forget the child 

Thst smiles sue sweetly on her knee ; 
But I'll remember thee, Glencairn, 

And a' that thou hast done for me I" 



LINES, 

SENT TO SIP. JOHN" WHITEFORD, OF WHITEFOaiS 
BART. WITH TMF. FOREGOING POEM. 

Thou, who thy honour as thy God rever'it, 
Who, save thy 7)iind':: n-pro'ich, nought earthljr 

fear'st, 
To thee this votive ofi"rrin<T I iniinrt, 
" The tc:irt'iil tiiliiito of a brukeu heart." 
The friend thou valiied'st, I the patron lov'd ; 
His worth, his honour, .'ill the world approT'lL 
We'll mourn till we too go iis he is gone, 
And tread the dreary path to that dark vrorid 

unknown. 



TAM O' SHANTER 



Of Brownyis and of Bogilic full is thii Buk*> 

Gawin DougUu, 



When chapman billies leave the street, 
And drouthy neebori, neebors meet, 



POEMS. 



53 



As tnarket-days are wcaiiug late, 
An' folk begin to tak the gate ; 
While we sit bousing at the napj)y, 
An' gettin' fou and unco happy, 
We think na on the lang Scots miles, 
The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles, 
That lie between us and our hame, 
Whare sits our sulky sullen dame, 
Gathering her brows like gathering storm, 
Nursing her wrath to keep it wami. 

This truth fand honest Tarn o' S/tanter, 
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter, 
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses. 
For honest men and bonny lasses). 

O Tam ! had'st thou but been sae wise. 
As ta'en tliv ain wife ICute's advice ! 
She tauld thee weel thou was a skeihini, 
A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum ; 
That frae November till October, 
Ae market-day thou was na sober ; 
That ilka melder, wi' the miller. 
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller ; 
That ev'ry naig was caM a shoe on, 
The smith and thee gat roaring fou on ; 
That at the L — d's liouse, ev'n on '?»!;(;:;;,■, 
Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till ^Itr.r.';:y. 
She prophesv'd, that late or soou. 
Thou would be ioiiiid deep drovv'!;"fI !;i jD a;.! 
Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk, 
By Alloway's auld haunted kirk. 

Ah, gentle d;imes ! it gars me giecf, 
To thinic 'now raony counsels sweet, 
How mony lecgthen'd sage advicts. 
The husband frae the wife despises ! 

But to our tale : Ae market night, 
Tam had got planted unco right ; 
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, 
Wi' reaming swats, that dran's divinely ; 
And at his elbow, souter Johnny, 
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony ; 
Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither ; 
They had been fou for weeks thegither. 
The night drave on wi' sangs an' clatter ; 
And aye the ale was growing better : 
The landlady and Tam grew gracious, 
Wi' favours, secret, sweet, and precious ; 
The souter tauld hi» queerest stories ; 
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus : 
The storm without might rair and rustle, 
Tam did na mind the storm a whistle. 

Care, road to see a man sae happy, 
E'en drown'd himself amang the nappy ; 
As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, 
The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure ; 
Kings may be blest, but Tu7n was glorious, 
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious i 

But pleasures are like poppies spread. 
You wise the flow'r, its bloom is shed ! 
Or like the snow-falls in the river, 
A moment white — then inelts for ever ; 



Or like the borealis race, 

That flit ere you can point their place { 

Or like the rainbow's lovely form 

Evanishing amid the storm 

Nae man can tether time or tide ; 

The hour ;ip|)ro:iches Tam maun ride ; 

That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stauCf 

That dreary hour he mounts his beast inj 

And sic a niglit lie taks the road in. 

As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. 

The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last ; 
The rattlin' showers rose on the blast : 
The sp;;c>ly gleams the darkness swallow'd ; 
Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd ; 
That night, a child might understand, 
The deil had business on his band. 

Wcel mounted on his grey mare, Meg— 
A bi;tt»r never lifted Ic'g — 
Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire. 
Despising- wind, and rain, aud fire ; 
Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet ; 
Wliiles crocip.irig o'er some auld Scots sonnet ; 
Whiles giow'ring rounil wi' prudent cares, 
Lest. 'oo:;ies catch hiiu unawares ; 
Kirk- Allcwui/ \v,is drawing nigh, 
Wuarc ghaisls and houlets nightly cry— 

I5y this time he was cross the ford, 
Wh;i;e in the sn:iw the chapman smoor'd ; 
And past the birks and nieikle stane, 
Whaif drunken Charlie brak 's neck-bane { 
A;k1 thro' the whius, aud by the cairn, 
Whare hunters fand the murder'd bairn ; 
And near the thorn, aboon the well, 
Whare Mutiijo's mither hanged herseU— 
Before him Do^in pours all his floods ; 
The doubling storm roars thro' the woods; 
The lightnings flash from pole to pole ; 
Near and more near the thunders roll ; 
When, glimmering t'nro' the groaning trees, 
Kirk-AUotvay seem'd in a bleeze ; 
Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing, 
Aud loud resounded mirth and dancing— ~ 

Inspiring bold John Barleycorn ! 
What dangers thou canst make us scorn ! 
Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil ; 
Wi' usquebae we'll face the devil,— 
The swats sae reara'd in Tammie's noddlci 
Fair play, he cared na deils a boddle. 
But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd, 
Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd, 
She ventured forward an the light ; 
And, vow ! Tam saw an unco sight ! 
Warlocks and witches in a dance ; 
Nae cotillion brent new frae France, 
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels. 
Put life and mettle in their heels. 
A winnock-bunker in the cast, 
There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast ; 
A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large, 
To gie them music was his charge ; 
He screw 'd his pipes and gart them ikirl, 
Till roof and rafters a' did dirl.— 



54 



BURNS* WORKS. 



Coffins stood round like open presses, 
That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses ; 
And by some devilish cantrip slight, 
Each in its cauld hand held a light, — 
By which heroic 7am was able 
To note upon the haly table, 
A murderer's banes in gibbet aims ; 
Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen'd bairus : 
A thief, new-cuttcd fr.ie a rape, 
Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape ; 
Five tomahawks, wi' blude red-rusted ; 
Five scymitars wi* murder crusted ; 
A garter, which a babe had strangled ; 
A knife, a father's throat had mangled, 
Whom his ain son o' life bereft. 
The grey hairs yet stack to the heft ; 
"Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu' 
Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu'. 

As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd and curious. 
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious : 
The piper loud and louder blew ; 
The dancers quick and quicker flew ; 
They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they clcekit. 
Till ilka carlin swat and reekit, 
And coost her duddies to the wark. 
And linket at it in her sark ! 

Now Tarn, O Tarn ! liad they been queans 
A' plump an' strapping, in their teens ; 
Their sarks, instead o' creesliic flaunen, 
Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen ! 
Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, 
That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair, 
I wad hae gi'en them aff my hurdies ! 
For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies ! 

But wither'd beldams, auld and droll, 
Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal, 
Lowping and flinging on a crummock, 
I wonder didna turn thy stomach. 

But Tam kenn'd what was what fu' brawlie. 
There was ae winsome wench and walie, 
That night enlisted in the core, 
(Lang after kenn'd on Carrick shore ! 
For mony a beast to dead she shot. 
And perish'd mony a bonnie boat. 
And shook baith meikle corn and bear, 
And kept the country side in fear), 
Her cutty-sark, o* Paisley harn. 
That while a lassie she had worn. 
In longitude though sorely scanty. 

It was her best, and she was vauntie 

Ah ! little kenn'd thy reverend grannie. 
That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, 
Wi' twa pund Scots, ('twas a' her riches), 
Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches ! 

But here my muse her wing maun cour ; 
Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r ; 
To sing how Nannie lap and flang, 
(A souple jade she was and Strang) 
And how Tarn stood, like ane bewitch'd, 
And thought liis very een enrich 'd ; 



Even Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' fain. 
And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main , 
Till first ae caper, syne anitlier, 
Tam tint his reason a' thcgither, 
And roars out. " Weel done, Cutty-sark !" 
And in an instant all was dark ; 
And scarcely had he Marjffie rallied, 
When out tlie hellish legion sallied. 

As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke. 
When plundering herds assail their byke ; 
As open pussie's mortal foes, 
When, pop ! she starts before their nose ; 
As eager runs the market crowd. 
When '• Catch the thief!" resounds aloud ; 
So Maggie runs, the witches follow, 
Wi' nonie an eldritch screech and hollow. 

Ah, Tamf Ah, Tam! thou'll get thy fairin, 
lu hell they'll roast thee like a herrin ! 
Ill vain tliy Kate awaits thy comin ! 
K<Ue suoii will be a woefu' woman ! 
Now, do thy s))cedy utmost, Meg, 
And win the kcy-stane * of the brig ; 
There at them thou thy tail may toss, 
A running stream they dare na cross. 
But ere the key-stane she could make. 
The lient a tale she had to shake ! 
For Nannie, far before the rest, 
Hard upon noble Maggie prest, 
And flow at Tam wi' furious ettle ; 
But little wist she Maggie's mettle — 
Ae s])ring brought aft' her master hale, 
But left behind her ain grey tail : 
The carlin claught her by the rump, 
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. 

Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, 
Ilk man and mother's son take heed : 
Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd. 
Or cutty-sarks run in your mind. 
Think ye may buy the joys o'er dear, 
Remember Tam o' Shunter's mare. 



ON SEEING A WOUNDED 
HARE LIMP BY ME, 

WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST SHOT AT. 

Inhuman man ! curse on thy barb'rous art, 
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye : 
May never pity soothe thee w^ith a sigh. 

Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart ! 

Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field, 
The bitter little that of life remains : 



• It is a well known fact, that witches, or any evil 
spirits, have no power to follov/ a poor wight any far- 
ther than the middle of the next running stream. — It 
may bo jiropcr likewise to mention to the benighted 
traveller, that when he falls in with bogles, whatever 
danger may be in his going forward, there is much 
more hazard in turning back. 



POEMS. 



55 



No more the thickening brakes and verdant 
, plains, 

To thee »hall home, or food, or pastime yield. 

Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted 
rest. 

No more of rest, but now thy dying bed ! 

The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head , 
The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest. 

Oft as by winding Nith, I musing wait 
The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn, 
I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn. 

And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy 
hapless fate. 



ADDRESS TO THE SHADE 
OF THOMSON, 

OK CROWNIKG HIS BUST AT EDNAM, ROX- 
BCKGHSBIRE, WITH BATS. 

While virgin Spring, by Eden's flood. 

Unfolds her tender mantle green. 
Or pranks the sod in frolic mood, 

Or tunes Eolian strains between : 

Whili" Summer, with a matron grace. 
Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade, 

Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace 
The progress of the spiky blade ; 

While Autumn, benefactor kind. 

By Tweed erects his aged head, 
And sees, with self-approving mind. 

Each creature on his bounty feed : 

While maniac Winter rages o'er 

The hills whence classic Yarrow flows, 

Rousing the turbid torrent's roar, 

Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows : 

S(» long, sweet Poet of the year, 

Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won ; 
While Scotia, with exulting tear, 

Proclaims that Thomson was her son. 



EPITAPHS. 



ON 



A CELEBRATED RULING 
ELDER. 



Hkrk souter John in death does sleep ; 

To hell, if he's gane thither, 
Satan, gie him thy gear to keep, 

He'll baud it weel thegither. 



ON A NOISY POLEMIC. 

Below thir stanes lie Jamie's banes : 

O Death, its my opinion. 
Thou ne'er took such a bleth'rin bitch 

Into thy dark dominion ! 



ON WEE JOHNNY. 

Hicjacet wee Johnny. 

Whoe'er, thou art, O reader, know, 
That death has murder'd Johnny .' 

An' here his body lies fu' low— 
For saul, he ne'er had ony. 



FOR THE AUTHOR'S FATHER. 

O YE whose cheek the tear of pity stains. 
Draw near with pious rev'rence and attend 1 

Here lie the loving husband's dear remains. 
The tender father and the gen'rous friend. 

The pitying heart that felt for hurr- _ woe ; 
The dauntless heart that fear'i no human 
pride ; 
The friend of man, to vice alone a .le ; 

" For ev'n his failbgs leaned to virtue'* 
side."* 



FOR R. A. Esq. 

Know thou, O stranger to the fiime 
Of this much lov'd, much honour'd name < 
(For none that knew him need be told) 
A warmer heart death ne'er made cold. 



FOR G. H. Esq. 

The poor man weeps — here G « ileept^ 

Whom canting wretches blam'd; 

But with such (IS he, where'er Jw be. 
May I be saved or d U t 



A BARD'S EPITAPH. 

Is there a whim-inspired fool, 
Owre fsst for thought, owre hot for rule, 
Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool. 

Let him draw near ; 
And owre this grassy heap sing dool, 

And drap a tear. 

Is there a bard of rustic song, 
Who, noteless,' steals the crowds amonp, 

• ColdnuUb 



66 



BURNS' WORKS. 



That weekly tlu» area tlirong, 

O, pass not by ! 

But, with a frater-feeling strong, 

Here heave a sigh. 

Is there a man, whose judgment clear, 
Can others tcacli the course to steer, 
Yet runs, himself, life's maJ career. 

Wild as the wave ; 
Here pause — and, through the starting tear. 

Survey this grave. 

The poor inhabitant below. 
Was quick to learn and wise to know, 
And keenly felt the friendly glow, 

^■Ind softer flame, 
But thoughtless follies kid him low, 

And stain'd his name ! 

Reader, attend — whether thy soul 
Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole, 
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole, 

In low pursuit j 
KnoW| prudept, cautious, self-control. 

Is wisdom's root. 



ON THE LATE 

CAPTAIN GROSE'S 

PEKEGRINATIONS THROUGH SCOTLAND, COL- 
I.ECTING THE ANTIQUITIES OF THAT KINGDOM. 

Hear, Land o' Cakes, and brither Scots, 
,Frae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groat's ; 
If there's a hole in a' your coats, 

I rede you tent it : 
A chield's amang you, taking notes, 

And, faith, he'll prent it. 

If in your bounds ye chance to light 
Upon a fine, fat, fodgel wight, 
O* stature short, but genius bright, 

That's he, mark weel — 
And wow ! he has an unco slight 

O* cauk and keel. 

By some auld, Voulet-haunted biggin,* 
Or kirk, deserted by ^vj riggin. 
It's ten to ane ye'll find h«i, gnur in 

Some elUiitch part, 
Wi' deils, they say, L — d safe's ': colleaguin' 

At some black tit. 

Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chfoner. 
Ye gipseyv-gang that deal in glamor, 
And you deep-read in hell's black grammar. 

Warlocks and witches ; 
Ye'll quaJie at his conjuring hammer. 

Ye midnight bitches. 

It's tauld he was a sodger bred. 
And ane wad rather fa'n than fled ; 



• Vide bis Antiquities of ScoUand. 



But now he's quat the «purtle blade, 

And dog-skin waQety 

And ta'en the — Antiquarian trade, 

I think they call it. 

He has a fouth o' auld nick nackets : 
Rusty airn caps and jinglin' jackets,* 
Wad had the Lothians three in tackets, 

A towmont guid : 
And parritch pats, and auld saut-backets, 

Before the Flood. 

Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder ; 
Auld Tubal Cain's fire-shool and fender ; 
That which distinguished the gender 

O' Balaam's ass ; 
A broom-stick o' the witch of Endor, 

Weel shod wi' brass. 

Forbye, he'll shape you aff, fu* gl^. 
The cut of Adam's philibeg ; 
The knife that iiicket Abel's craig. 

He'll prove you fully. 
It was a faulding jocteleg. 

Or lang-kail gullie.— • 

But wad ye see him in his glee. 
For meikle glee and fun has he. 
Then set him down, and twa or three 

Guid fellows wi' him ; 
And port, O port I Shine thou a wee, 

And then ye'll see him ! 

Now, by the pow'rs o' verse and prose i 
Thou art a dainty chiel, Grose !— 
Whae'er o' thee shall ill suppose. 

They sair misca* thee; 
I'd take the rascal by the nose. 

Wad say. Shame fa' thee ! 



TO MISS CRUIKSHANKS, 

A VERY YOUNG LADY, WRITTEN ON THE BLAKK 
LEAF OF A BOOK, PRESENTED TO UXft Vt 
THE AUTHOR. 

Beauteous rose-bud, young and gay, 
Blooming on thy early May, 
Never may'st thou, lovely flow'r. 
Chilly shrink in sleety show'r ! 
Never Boreas' hoary path, 
Never Eurus' pois'oous breath, 
Never baleful stellar lights, 
Taiut thee with untimely blighta ! 
Never, never reptUe thief 
Riot on thy virgin leaf! 
Nor even Sol too fiercely view 
Thy bosom blushing still with dew ! 

May'st thou long, sweet crimson gem, 
RicLly deck thy native stem ; 



* Vide his treatise on AncicBt Annour and Wcapooii 



POEMS. 



61 



Till some ev'ning, sober, calm. 
Dropping dews, and breathing balm, 
Wbile all around the woodland rings, 
And ev'ry bird thy requiem sings ; 
Thou, amid the dirgeful sound, 
Shed thy dying honours round, 
And resign to parent earth 
The loveliest form she e'er gave birth. 



OX ilXAPING IN A NEWSPAPER, THE DEATH OF 

JOHN M'LEOD, Esq. 

BROTHER TO A YOUNG LADV, A PARTICULAR 
FRIEND OF THE AUTHOr's. 



Sad thy tale, thou idle page, 

And rueful thy alarms : 
Death tears the brother of her love 

From Isabella's arms. 

Sweetly deck'd with pearly dew 
The morning rose may blow ; 

But, cold successive noontide blasts 
May lay its beauties low. ' 

Fair on Isabella's morn 
The sun propitious srail'd ; 

But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds 
Succeeding hopes beguil'd. 

Fate oft tears the bosom chords 
That nature finest strung : 

So Isabella's heart was form'd. 
And so that heart was rung. 

Dread Omnipotence, alone, 
Can heal the wound he gave ; 

Can point the brimful grief-worn eyes 
To scenes beyond the grave. 

Virtuous blossoms there shall blow. 
And fear uo withering blast ; 

There Isabella's spotless worth 
Shall happy be at last. 



THE HUMBLE PETITION OF 
BRUAR-WATER.* 

TO THE NOBLE DUKE OF ATHOLE. 

Mv Lord, I know your noble ear 

Woe ne'er assails in \ii\n ; 
Emboldcn'd thus, I heg you'll hear 

Your humble slave complain, 
How saucy Phceljus' Ecorcliiiig beams, 

Iq flaming summer-piide, 



• Bruar Falls, in Athole, are exceedingly picturesque 
and beautiful ; but their eH'ect is much impaired by Oie 
want of trees and shrubs. 



Dry-withering, waste my foaming streami, 
And drink my crystal tide. 

The lightly-jumpln glowrin trouts, 

That thro' my waters play, 
If, in their random, wanton spouts, 

They near the margin stray ; 
If, hapless chance ! they linger lang, 

I'm scorching up so shallow, 
They're left the whitening stanes amang, 

In gasping death to wallow. 

Last day I grat, wi' spite and teen, 

As poet B came by, 

That, to a bard I should be seen, 

Wi' half my channel dry : 
A panegyric rhyme, I ween, 

Even as I was he shor'd me : 
But had I in my glory been. 

He, kneeling, wad ador'd me. 

Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks, 

In twisting strength I rin ; 
There, high my boiling torrent smokes, 

Wild-roaring o'er a linn : 
Enjoying large each spring and well 

As nature gave them me, 
I am, although I say't mysel, 

Worth gaun a mile to see. 

Would then my noble master please 

To grant my highest wishes, 
He'll shade my banks wi' tow'ring trees, 

And bonnie spreading bushes ; 
Delighted doubly then, my Lord, 

You'll wander on my banks. 
And listen mony a grateful bird 

Return you tuneful thanks. 

The sober laverock, warbling wild, 

Shall to the skies aspire ; 
The gowdspink, music's gayest child. 

Shall sweetly join the choir : 
The blackbird strong, the lintwhite dear, 

The mavis wild and mellow ; 
The robin pensive autumn cheer. 

In all her locks of yellow. 

This too, a covert shall ensure. 

To shield them from the storm ; 
And coward maukin sleep secure. 

Low in her grassy form. 
Here shall the shepherd make his seat. 

To weave his crown of flowers ; 
Or iiod a shelt'ring safe retreat. 

From prime descending showers. 

And here, by sweet endearing stealth. 

Shall meet the loving pair, 
Despising worlds with all their wealth 

As empty idle care : 
The flow'rs shall vie in all their charms 

The hour of heav'n to grace. 
And birks extend their fragrant arms 

To screen the dear embrace. 



28 



56 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Here, Iiapljr too, at vernal dawn. 

Some musing bard may stray. 
And eye the smoking, dewy lawn. 

And misty mountain, grey ; 
Or, by the reaper's nightly beam. 

Mild chequering through the trees, 
Rave to my darkly dashing stream, 

Hoarse-swelling on the breeze. 

Let lofty firs, and ashes cool. 

My lowly banks o'erspread, 
And view, deep-bending in the pool, 

Their shadows' watery bed ! 
Let fragrant birks in woodbines drest, 

My craggy cliffs adorn ; 
And, for the little songster's nest. 

The close embow'ring thorn. 

So may old Scotia's darling hope. 

Your little angel band. 
Spring, like their fathers, up to prop 

Their honour'd native laud ! 
So may thro' Albion's farthest ken. 

To sociaUflowing glasses. 
The grace be — " Athole's honest men, 

And Athole's bonnie lasses !'- 



ON SCARING SOME WATER- 
FOWL, 

IN LOCH-TURIT ; 

A WILD SCENE A5I0NG THE HILLS OF 
OCHTEllTYRE. 

Whv, ye tenants of the lake. 
For me your watery haunt forsake ? 
Tell me, fellow-creatures, why 
At my presence thus you fly ? 
Why disturb your social joys. 
Parent, filial, kindred ties? — 
Common friend to you and me, 
Nature's gifts to all are free : 
Peaceful keep your dimpling wave. 
Busy feed, or wanton lave ; 
Or, beneath the sheltering rock. 
Bide the surging billow's shock. 

Conscious, blushing for our race. 
Soon, too soon, your fears I trace. 
Man, your proud usurping foe, 
Would be lord of all below ; 
Plumes himself in Freedom's pride, 
Tyrant stern to all beside. 

The eagle, from the cliffy brow. 
Marking you his prey below, 
In his breast no pity dwells. 
Strong necessity compels. 
But man, to whom alone is giv'n 
A ray direct from pitying heav'n. 
Glorious in his heart humane — 
And creatures for his pleasure slain. 



In these savage, liquid plains, 
Only known to wand'ring swains. 
Where the mossy riv'let strays ; 
Far from human htmnts and ways ; 
All on nature you depend, 
And life's poor season peaceful «pend. 

Or, if man's superior might. 
Dare invade your native right. 
On the lofty ether borne, 
Man with all his pow'rs you scorn : 
Swiftly seek, on clanging wings, 
Other lakes and other springs ; 
And the foe you cannot brave. 
Scorn at least to be his slave. 



WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL 

OVER THE CHIMNEY-PIECE IN THE PARLOUft 
OF THE INN AT KENMORE, TAYMOUTH. 

Admiring Nature in her wildest grace, 
These northern scenes with weary feet I trace ; 
O'er many a winding dale and painful steep, 
Th' abodes of covey'd grouse and timid sheep, 
My savage journey, curious, I pursue. 
Till fam'd Breadalbane opens to my view — 
The meeting clifs each deep-sunk glen divides. 
The woods, wild-scatter'd, clothe their ample 

sides ; 
Th' outstretching lake, embosom'd 'mohg the 

hills, 
The eye with wonder and amazement fills ; 
The Tay meand'ring sweet in infant pride. 
The palace rising on his verdant side. 
The lawns wood-fringed in Natures native taste; 
The hillocks dropt in Nature's careless haste ! 
The arches striding o'er the new-born stream ; 
The village, glittering in the moontide beam- 



Poetic ardours in my bosom swell, 
Lone wandering by the hermit's mossy cell : 
The sweeping theatre of hanging woods ; 
The incessant roar of headlong tumbling 
floods — 



Here Poesy might wake her heav'n-taught lyre, 
And look through nature with creative fire ; 
Here, to the wrongs of fate half reconcil'd. 
Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander 

wild ; 
And disappointment, in these lonely bounds. 
Find balm to soothe her bitter rankling wounds : 
Here heart-struck Grief might heaven-ward 

stretch her scan, 
And injur'd worth forget and pardon roan. 



POEMS. 
WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL, 

' STANDING Br THE FALL OF FYERS, NEAR_ 
LOCH-NESS. 



Among the heathy hills and ragged woods 
The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods ; 
Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds, 
Where, thro" a shapeless breach, his stream 
resounds. 

As high in air the bursting torrents How, 
As deep recoiling surges foam below, 
Prone down the rock the whitening sheet de- 
scends, 
And viewless echo's ear, astonish'd, rends. 
Dim-seen, through rising mists, and ceaseless 

showers, 
The hoary cavern, wide-surrounding lowers. 
StiJ, rnro tae gap the struggling river toils. 
And stiU below, the horrid caldron boils — 



ON THE BIllIH 01' A 

POSTHUMOUS CHILD, 

BORN IN PECULIAR CIIICUMSTA NCES OV 
FAMILY DISTRESS. 

Sweet Flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love. 

And ward o' niouy a prayer. 
What heart o* stane wad thou ua move, 

Sae helpless, sweet, and fair ! 

November hirples o'er the lea, 

Chill on thy lovely form ; 
And gane, alas! the shelt'ring tree. 

Should shield thee frae the storm. 

May He who gives the ::ain to pour, 

And wings the blast to blaw. 
Protect thee frae the driving shower. 

The bitter frost and snaw ! 

May He, the friend of woe and want, 
Who heals life's various stounds. 

Protect and guard the mother pla'nt. 
And heal her cruel wounds I 

But late she flourish'd, rooted fast. 

Fair on the summer movn : 
Now feebly bends she in the blast, 

Unsheltei'd and forlorn. 

Blest be thy bloora, thou lovely gem, 

Unscath'd by ruffian hand ! 
And from thee many a parent stem 

Arise to deck our land ! 



THE WHISTLE 



A BALLAD. 



As tlie authentic pro^e history of the Whistle is cu- 
lious, I shall here give it. — In the train of Anne of 
Denmaik, when she came to Scotland with our James 
the Sixth, there came over also a Danish gentleman of 
gigantic stature and great prowess, and a matchless 
champion of Bacchus. He had a little ebony Whistle 
which at the commencement of the orgies he laid on 
the table, and whoever was last able to blow it, every 
body else being disabled by the potency of the bottla, 
was to carry off the Whistle as a trophy of victory. 
The Dane produced credentials of his victories without 
a single defeat, at the courts of Copenhagen, Stock- 
holm, Moscow, Warsaw, and several of the petty 
courts ill Germany ; and challenged the Scots Baccha- 
nalians to the alternative of trying his prowess, or else 
of acknowledging their inferiority. Al^ter many over- 
throws on the part of the Scots, the Dane was encoun- 
tered by Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxwelton, ancestor of 
the present worthy baronet of that name; who, after 
three days and three nights' hard contest, leift the 
Scandinavian under the table. 

And blen' on the Whiatle hit requiem ehritl^ 

Sir Walter, son to Sir Robert before mentioned, af. 
tcrwards lost the Whistle to Walter Riddel, of Glen. 

riddel, who had married a sister of Sir Walter's On 

Kriday, the 16th of October 1790, at Friars-Carse, the 
Whistle was once more contended for, as relatetl in the 
ballad, by the present Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxwel. 
ton ; Robert Riddel, Esq. of Glenriddel, lineal de- 
soeiuiant and representative of Walter Riddel, who 
won the Whistle, and in whose family it had conti- 
nued ; and Alexander Ferguson, Esq. of Craigdarroch, 
likewise descended of the great Sir Robert; which last 
gentleman carried oft' the hard-won honours of the field. 



I SING of a Whistle, a Wliistle of worth, 
I sing of a Whistle, the pride of the North, 
Was brought to the court of our good Scottish 

king,- 
And long with this Whistle all Scotland shall 



Old Loda,* still rueing the arm of Fingal, 
The god of the bottle sends down from Us 

hall— 
" This Whistle's your challeoge, to Scotland 

get o'er, 
.And drink them to hell, Sir ! or ne'er see me 

more !" 

Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell, 
What champions ventur'd, what champions 

fell; 
The son of great Loda was conqueror still, 
.Vnd blew on the Whistle his requiem shrill. 

Till Robert, the lord of the Cairn and the 
Scaur, 
IJnmatch'd at the bottle, unconquer'd in war, 
He drank his poor god-ship as deep as the sea, 
No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than he. 

Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy hu 
gain'd ; 
Which now in his house has for ages remain'd • 



• See Ossian's Caric-thura, 



40 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Till three noble chieftains, and all of his blood, 
The jovial contest again have i enew'd. - 

Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear 

of flaw ; 
Craigdarroch, so famous for wit, worth, and 

law ; 
And trusty Gleuriddel, so skili'd in old coins ; 
And gallant Sir Robei t, deep read in old wines. 

Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth 
aa oil. 
Desiring Glenriddel to yield up the spoil ; 
Or else he would muster the heads of the clan, 
And once more, in claret, try which was the 
man. 

" By the gods of the ancients," Glenriddel 

replies, 
" Before I surrender so glorious a 'nize, 
I'll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More,* 
And bumper his horn with him twenty times 

o'er." 

Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pre- 
tend. 

But he ne'er turn'd his back on his foe — or his 
friend. 

Said, Toss down the Whistle, the pri?:e of the 
field. 

And knee-deep in claret, he'd die or he'd yield. 

To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair, 
So noted for drowning of sorrow and care ; 
But for wine and for welcome not more known 

to fame, 
Than the sense, wit, and taste, of a sweet lovely 

dame. 

A bard was selected to witness the fray, 
And tell future ages the feats of the day ; 
A bard who detested all sadness and spleen, 
And wish'd that Parnassus a vineyard had 
been. * 

The dinner being over, the claret they ply. 
And every new cork is a new spring of joy ; 
In the bands of old friendship and kindred so 

set. 
And the bands gi-ew the tighter the more t'ncy 
were wet. 

Gay pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er ; 
Bright Fhoehus ne'er witness'd so joyous a core, 
And vowed that to leave them he was quite 

forlorn. 
Till Cynthia hinted he'd see them next morn. 

Six bettles a-piece had v/ell wore out the 
night, 
When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight. 



Turn'd o'er in one bumper a buttle of red, 
And swoie 'twas the way that their ancestors 
did. 

Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and 
sage. 
No longer the warfare, ungodly, would wage ; 
A high-ruling Elder to wallow in wine ! 
He left the foul business to folks less divine. 

The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the 
end ; 

But who can with fate and quart bumpers con- 
tend ? 

Though fate said — a hero should perish in light ; 

So uprose bright Phoebus — and down fell the 
knight. 

Next uprose our bard, like a prophet in 

drink : — 
" Craigdarroch, thou'lt soar when creation 

shall sink ; 
But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme, 
Como^one bottle more — and have at the sub- 

ILir.e ! 

" Thy line, that have struggled for Freedom 
with Bruce, 
Shall heroes and patriots ever produce ; 
So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay ; 
The field thou hast won, by von bright god of 

day !" 



SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE, 

A BROTHEIl POET, f 

Ai'i.D x5::;bo;i, 
I'ai three times doubly o'er your debtor. 
For your auld-farrent, frien'ly letter ; 
Tho' I maun say't, I doubt ye flatter, 
Ye speak so fair : 
For my puir, silly, rhymm' clatter. 

Some less maun sair. 

Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle ; 
Lanjc may your ell)uck jink and diddle. 
To cheer you through the weary widdle 

O' war'ly cares, 
Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddle 

Your auld grey hairs. 

But Davie, lad, I'm red ye're glaikit ; 
I'm tauld the l\Iuse ye hae negleckit ; 
An' gif it's sae, ye t-ud be lickit 

Until ye fyke ; 
Sic hans as you sud ne'er be faikit, 

Be hain't wha like. 



• See Johnson's Tour to the Hebrides. 



t This is prefixed to the poems of David Sillar, pul> 

Ilislied at Kilmarnock, 1:89, and has not before appear ■ 
ed in our author's printed poems. 



POEMS. 



•1 



For me, I'm on tani.iisus bi-ink, 

Rivin' tho woitls to gar them clink ; 

WhyV's d.iez't \vi love, Ti'hyles daez't wi' drink, 

Wi' jads or masons ; 
An' wliylp", but aye ovvre late,' I think, 

Braw sober Ussoas. 

Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man, 
Commen' me to the bardie clan ; 
Except It be some idle plan 

O' rhymin' clink, 
The dcvil-haet, th,it I sud ban. 

They ever think. 

Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme of livla' ; 
Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin' : 
But just the pouchic put the nieve in, 

An' while ought's there, 
Then, hiltie, skiltie, we gae scrievin', 

An' fush nae mair. 

Leeze me on rhyme ! it's aye a treasure, 
My chief, araaist my only pleasure, 
At hame, a-fiel', at wark or leisure. 

The JMuse, poor hizzie ! 
Tho' rougt ao' raploch be her measure, 

She's seldom lazy. 

Haud to the Muse, my dainty Da\ne : 
The warl' may play you mony a shavie ; 
But for the Muse, she'll never leave ye, 

Tho' e'er sae pour, 
Na, even tho' limpin' wi' the spavie 

Frae door tae' door. 



ON MY EARLY DAYS. 
I. 

1 MIND it weel in early date, 

When I was beardless, young, and blate^ 

An' first could thresh the barn, 
Or haud a yokin o' the pleugh. 
An' tho' forfought^n sair eneugh, 

Yet unco proud to learn — 
When first amang the yellow corn 

A man 1 reckon'd was. 
And wi' the lave ilk merry morn 
Could rank my rig and lass — 
Still shearing, and clearing 
The tither stooked raw, 
Wi' claivers, an' haivers, 
Wearing the day awa. 

II. 
E'en then a wish, I mind its pow'r, 
A wish that to my latest hour 

Shall strongly heave my breast. 
That I for poor auld Scotland's sake, 
Some usefu' plan or book could make, 

Or sing a sang, at least. 
The rough burr-thistle, spreading wida 

Amaog the bearded bear, 



I turn'd the weeder-cups aside, 
An' spared the symbol dear : 
No nation, no station, 

My envy e'er could raise, 
A Scot still, but blot still, 
I knew nae higher praise. 

III. 

But still the elements o' sang 

In formless jumble, right an' rang, 

Wild floated in my brain : 
'Till on that har'st I said before, 
]\Iy partner in the merry core, 

Slie lous'd the forming strain : 
I sec her yet, the sousie quean, 

That lighted up her jingle, 
Her witching smile, her puuky e'en 
That gart my heart-strings tingle ; 
I filed, inspired, 

At every kindling keek, 
But bashing, and d.ishing, 
I feared aye to speak.* 



ON THE DEATH OF 

SIR JAMES HUNTER BLAIR. 

The lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare, 
Dim, cloudy, sunk beneath the western wave; 

Th' inconstant blast howl'd thro' the darkening 
air, 
And hollow whistled in the rocky cave. 

Lone as I wander'd by each cliff and dell, 
Ouce the loved haunts of Scotia's royal 
train ; f 
Or mused where limpid streams once hallow'd, 
well.t 
Or mould'ring ruins mark the sacred fane.§ 

Th' increasing blast roar'd round the beetling 
rocks, 
The clouds, swift-wing'd, iiew o'er the starry 
sky, 
The groaning trees untimely shed their locks, 
And shooting meteors caught the startled eye. 

The paly moon rose in the livid east, 

And 'mong the cliffs disclosed a stately form, 

In weeds of woe that frantic beat her breast, 
And mix'd her wailings with the raving 
storm. 

Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow, 

'Twas Caledonia's trophied shield I view'd ; 

Her form majestic droop'd in pensive woe, 
The lightning of her eye in tears imbued. 



• Tlie reader will find some explanatioa of thll 
poem in p. viii. 

■ The King's Park at Holyrood-houii. 
St. Anthony's Well. ^^^ 

SU Aatfuuiy'i ChapeL 



ti 



BURNS* WORKS. 



ReVersei tliat Spear, JC(loul)tai)\c In war, 
Reclined that banner, erst in fields imfuil'd, 

That like a deathful meteor gleam'd afar, 

And braved the mighty raonarcbs of the 
world, — 

•' My patriot son fills an untimely grave !" 

With accents wild and lifted arms she cried ; 
" Low lies the hand that oft was stretch'd to 
save. 
Low lies the heart that swoU'd with honest 
pride ! 

" A weeping country joins a widow's tear. 
The helpless poor mix with the orphan's cr)' ; 

The drooping arts around their patron's bier, 
And grateful science heaves the heartfelt sigh. 

" I 6aw my sons resume their ancient fire ; 

I saw fair Freedom's blossoms richly blow ! 
But, ah ! how hope is born but to expire ! 

Relentless fate has laid tlie guardian low 

" My patriot falls, but shall he lie unsung, 
While empty greatness saves a worthless 
name ! 

No ; every Muse shall join her tuneful tongue, 
And future ages hear his growing fame. 

" And I will join a mother's tender caves, 
Thro' future times to make his virtues last, 

That distant years may boast of other Blairs" — 
She said, and vanish'd with the sweeping 
blast 



WRITTEN 

OK THE BLANK LEAF OE A COPY OF THE POEMS, 
PRESENTED TO AN OLD SWEETHEART, THEN 
MARRIED.* 

Once fondly lov'd, and still remembcr'd dear, 
Sweet early object of my yoiitlifu! vows. 

Accept this mark of friendship, waiin, sincere, 
Friendship ! 'tis all cold duty now allows. — 

And wlien you read the simide artless rhymes, 
One friendly sijrh for him, he asks no more. 

Who distant burns in flaniintr torrid climes, 
Or h.iply lies bcocath th' Atlantic roar. 



THE JOLLY BEGGARS 

A CANTATA. 



RECITATIVO. 



When lyart leaves bestrow the yird, 

Or wavering like the Bauckie-bird,-}- 

Bedim cauld Boreas' blast ; 



• The Rirl mentioned in the letter to Dr. Moore, 
f The old Scotch name for the Bat. 



When hailstancs drive wi' bitter s^ytCf 
And infant frosts beRin to bite, 
In hoary crarueuch drest ; 
Ac night at e'en a merry core, 
O' randie, ganj^rel bodies, 
In Poosie-Nansie's held the splore, 
To drink their orra duddies : 
Wi' quaffing and laughing. 

They ranted and they sang ; 
Wi' jumping and thumping, I 

The very girdle rang. 1 

First, niest the fire, in auld red rags, 
Ane sat, weel brac'd wi' mealy bags, 

And knapsack a' in order j 
His doxy lay within his arm, 
Wi' usquebae an' blankets warm- 
She blinket on her sodger : 
An' aye he gies the tousie drab 

The tlther skelpin' kiss, 
^\Tiile she held up her greedy gab 
Just like an a'mous dish. 
Ilk smack did crack still. 

Just like a cadger's whip. 

Then staggering and swaggering 

He roar'd this ditty up — 

AIR. 
Tune—" Soldier's Joy. j 

L 

I AM a son of Mars who have been in miaj 

wars, 
And show my cuts and scars wherever I come ; 
This here was for a wench, and that other in a 

trench, 
When Avelcomiiig the French at the sound of 

the drum. 

Lai de daudlc, &c. 

n. 

My 'prenticeship I past where my leader 

breath'd his last, 
Wlien the bloody die was cast on the heights of 

Abram ; 
I served out my trade when the gallant game 

was play'd, 
And the Moro low was laid at the sound of the 

drum. 

Lai dc daudle, &c. 

III. 

I lastly was with Curtis, among the floating 

batt'ries. 
And there I left for witness an arm and a limb ; 
Yet let my country need me, with Elliot to 

head me, 
Td clatter my stumps at the sound of the drum. 
Lai de daudle, &c. 

IV, 

And now tho' I must beg with a wooden afm 

and leg. 
And many a tatter'd rag hanging over my blQii, 



t>OEMS. 



69 



|H» M liapjiy wltli my Wallet, my uottlc and 

iDy callet, 
Am whea I us'd la scarlet td follow d drUti]. 
Lai de daudle, &c. 



XVhat tho' with hoary locks, 1 must stand the 

Winter shocks, 
Beneath the woods and rocks often times for a 

home, 
When the tother bag I sell, and the tother 

bottle tell, 
i could meet a troop of hell, at the sound of 

the drum. 

Lai de daudle, &c. 



RECITATIVO. 

He ended ; and the kebars sheuk, 

Aboon the chorus roar ; 
While frighted rattans backward leuk, 

And seek the benmost bore ; 
A fairy fiddler frae the neuk. 

He skirl'd out encore ! 
But up arose the martial chuck, 

And laid the loud uproar. 



AIR. 

run*—" Soldier Laddie." 

I ONCE was a maid, the' I cannot tell when, 
And still my delight is in proper young men ; 
Some one of a troop of dragoons was my daddie, 
No wonder Tm fond of a sodger laddie, 
Sing, Lai de lal, &c. 

n. 

The first of my loves was a swaggering blade, 
To rattle the thundering drum was his trade ; 
His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so 

ruddy. 
Transported I was with my sodger laddie. 
Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 

HI. 

But the godly old chaplain left him in the lurch, 
The sword I forsook for the sake of the church, 
He ventur'd the soul, and I risked the body, 
Twas then I pr»v'd false to my sodger laddie. 
Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 

IV. 

Pull soon I grew sick of my sanctified sot, 
The regimiiit at large for a husband I got ; 
From the gilded snontoon to the fife I was 

ready, 
I avkrd no more but a sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lul de lal, &c. 



But the peace it rcduc'd mc to lipg in despair, 
Till T met my old buy at Cunnin;'-h:\m fair ; 



Hi* Mff regtnunial they fluUerM w> gaudy, 
My heart it i-ejoic'd at my Sodgei' laddie. 
Sing, Lal de lal, Uc. 

VL 

And now I have liv'd — I know not how \oag. 

And still I can join in a cup or a song ; 

But whilst with both hands I can hold the glass 

steady. 
Here's to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie. 
Sing, Lal de lal, &c 



RECITATIVO. 

Then niest outspak a raucle carlin, 
Wha kent sae weel to cleek the sterling. 
For monie a pursie she had hooked, 
And had in mony a well been ducked. 
Her dove had been a Highland laddie. 
But weary fk' the waefu' woodie ! 
Wi' sighs and sobs she thus began 
To wail her braw John Highlandman. 



Tune—" O an' ye were dead, Gudeman,' 



A HIGHLAND lad my love was born. 
The LaUand laws he held in scorn ; 
But he still was faithfu' to his clan, 
My gallant braw John Highlandman. 



Sing, hey ray braw John Highlandman ! 
Sing, ho my braw John Highlandman ! 
There's not a lad in a' the Ian' 
Was match for my John Highlandman. 

IL 
With his philibeg an' tartan plaid. 
An' gude claymore down by his side, 
The ladies hearts he did trepan, 
My gallant braw John Highlandman. 
Sing, hey, &c. 

in. 

We ranged a' from Tweed to Spcy, 
An' liv'd like lords and ladies gay ; 
For a Lalland face he feared none, 
My gallant braw John Highlandman. 
Sing, hey, &c. 

IV. 

They banish'd him beyond tl;e sea, 
But ere the bud was on the tree, 
Adown my cheeks the pearls ran. 
Embracing my John Highlandman. 
Sing, hev, &c. 



But, oh ! they catch'il liini at the list, 
Au'I bdiind him in a diinifi'on fist ; 



C4> 



BURNS' WORKS. 



My curse upon them every one, 
They've hang'd my braw John Hlglandman.] 
Sing, hey, &c. 

VI. 

And now a widow, I must mourn 
The pleasures that will ne'er return ; 
No comfort but a hearty can, 
When I think on John Highlandman. 
Sing, hey, &c. 

RECITATIVO. 

A pigmy scraper, wi' his fiddle, 

Wha us'd at trysts and fairs to driddle. 

Her strappin limb and gausy middle 

He reach'il nae higher, 
Had hol'd his heartie l>ke a riddle. 

An' blawn't on fire. 

Wi' hand on haunch, an' upward e'e. 
He croen'd his gamut, one, two, three. 
Then ia an Arioso key. 

The wee Apollo 
Set off wi' Allegretto glee 

His giga solo. 



Tune—" Whisth owre the lave o't." 

I. 

Let me ryke up to dight that tear, 
An' go wi me to be my dear, 
An' then your every care and fear 
May whistle owre the lave o't. 



I am a fiddler to my trade. 
An' a' the tunes that e'er I play'd, 
The sweetest still to wife or maid. 
Was whistle owre the lave o't. 

n. 

At kirus and weddings we'se be there, 
An* O ! sae nicely's we will fare ; 
We'll bouse about till Daddie Care 
Sings whistle owie the lave o't. 
I am, &c. 

HI. 

Sae merrily the banes we'll pyke. 
An' sun oursels about the dyke, 
An' at our leisure, when we like, , 
We'll whistle owre the lave o't. 
I am, &c. 

IV. 

But bless me wi' your heavo'n o' charms, 
And while I kittle hair on thairms. 
Hunger, cauld, an a sick huinis, 
May whistle cure the la^■e o't. 
I am, &c. 



Her charms had struck a sturdjr Curd, 

As weel as poor Gutscraper ; 
He taks the fiddler by the beard, 

And draws a rusty rapier — 
He swoor by a* was swearing worth, 

To speet him like a pliver. 
Unless he would from that time forth. 

Relinquish her for ever. 

Wi* ghastly e'e, poor tweedle dee 

Upon his hunkers bended, 
And pray'd for grace wi' ruefu* fiuje, 

And sae the quarrel ended. 
But though his little heart did grieve. 

When round the tinkler prest her. 
He feign'd to snu'tle in his sleeve. 

When thus the caird address'd her. 



Tune—" Clout the Caldron." 

I. 

Mt bonnie lass, I work in brass, 

A tinkler is my station ; 
I've traveli'd round all Christian ground 

In this my occupation. 
I've ta'en the gold, I've been enroll'd 

In many a noble squadron : 
But vain they search'd, when off I march''f 

To go and clout the cauldron. 

I've ta'en the gold, In^ 

XL 

Despise that shrimp, that wither'd imp, 

Wi* a his noise an' caprin*. 
An' tak' a share wi' those that bear 

The budget an* the apron. 
An' by that stowp, my faith and houp. 

An' by that dear Keiibagie,* 
If e'er ye want, or meet wi' scant, 

May I ne'er weet my craigie. 

An' by that stowp, ke, 

RECITATIVO. 

The caird prevail'd — the unblushing fair 

In hjs embraces sunk. 
Partly wi' love o'ercome sae sair. 

An' partly she was drunk. ^ 
Sir Violino, with an air 

That show'd a man of spunk, 
Wish'd unison between the pair. 

An' made the bottle clunk 

To their health that night 

But hurchin Cupid shot a shaft 

That play'd a dame a shavie. 
The fiddler rak'd her fore an aft, 

Behint the chicken cavie. 
Her lord, a wight o' Homer's * craft, 

Tho' limping with the spavie. 



« A peculiar sort of whisky so called, a great favour- 
ite with Poosie-Mancie's clubs. 

* Homer is allowed to be the oldest boUed-siognoo 
record. 



POEMS. 



65 



He tirplM up, and lap like daft, 
An* shor'd them Daintie Davie 

O boot that night. 

He was a care-defying blade 

As ever Bacchus listed, 
Though Fortune sair upon him laid, 

His heart she ever niiss'd it. 
He had no wish but — to he glad. 

Nor want but — when he thirsted ; 
He hated nought but — to be sad. 

And thus the Muse suggested. 

His sang that night. 

AIR. 

Tune—" For a' that, an' a' that" 



I AM a bard of no regard, 
Wi' gentle folks, au' a' that ; 

But Homer-like, the glow ran byke, 
Frae town to town I draw that. 



For a' that, an' a that ; 

An' twice as nieikle's a' that ; 
I've lost but ane, I've twa behin', 

I've wife enough for a' that. 

IT. 

I never drank the Muse's stank, 

Castalia's burn, an' a' that ; 
But there it streams, and richly reams, 

Bly Helicon I ca' that. 

For a' that, &c. 

III. 
Great love I bear to a' the fair. 

Their humble slave, an' a' that ; 
But lordly will, I hold it still 
A mortal sin to thraw that. 

For a' that, &c. 

IV. 

In raptures sweet, this hour we meet, 

Wi' mutual love an' a' that ; 
But for how lang the flie mat/ stang. 

Let inclination law that. 

For a' that, &c. 

V. 

Their tricks*and craft have put me daft, 
They've ta'en me in, an' a' that ; 

But clear your decks, and here's the sex ! 
I like the jids for a' that. 

" For a' that, an' a' that, 

• Au' twice as meikle's a' that : 
My dearest bluid, to do them guid. 
They're welcome tiU't for a' that. 

RECITATIVO. 

So sung the bard — and Nansie's wa's 
Shook with a tliumler of applause, 
Re-echo'd from each mouth j 



They toom'd their pocks, an' pawn'd tkelr dud*, 
They scarcely left to co'er their fud». 
To quench their lowan drouth. 

Then owre again, the jovial thrang, 

The poet did request, 
To loose his pack an' wale a sang, 
A ballad o' the best : 
He rising, rejoicing, 

Between liis twa Deboralit, 
Looks round him, an' found them 
Impatient for the chorus. 



Tune—" Jolly Mortals fill your Glasses." 

I. 

See ! the smoking bowl before us, 
Mark our jovial ragged ring ! 

Round and round take up the chorus, 
And in raptures let us sing. 



A fig for those by law protected! 

Liberty's a glorious feast ! 
Courts for cowards were erected. 

Churches built to please the priest 

IT. 

What is title } what is treasure ? 

What is reputation's care ? 
If we lead a life of pleasure, 

'Tis no matter how or where I 
A fig, &c 

in. 

With the ready trick and fable. 
Round we wander all the day ; 

And at night, in barn or stable. 
Hug our doxies on the hay. 
A fig, &c. 

IV. 
Does the train-attended carriage 

Through the country lighter rove ? 
Does the sober bed of marriage 
Witness brighter scenes of love ? 
A fig, &c. 

V. 

Life is all a variorum, 

We regard not how it goes ; 
Let them cant about decorum 

Wlio have characters to lose. 
A fig, &c. 

VL 
Here's to the budgets, bags, and wallets ' 

Here's to all the wandering train ! 
Here's our ragged brats and collets ! 

One and all cry out. Amen ! 

A fig for those by law protected ! 

Libei iy's a glorious feast ! 
Courts for cowards were erected, 

Churches built to please the priest, 



V^ 



BUftKS' WORKS/ 
TMfi KIRK'S ALARM:* 



A SATIREi 

OkthodoX) orthodox, wha believe in John 
Knox, 
Let me sound an alarm to your conscience ; 
There's a heretic blast has been blawn in the 
wast. 
That what )« no sense must be nonsense. 

Dr. Mac, f Dr. Alac, you should stretch on a 
rack, 

To strike evil doers wi' terror ; 
To join faith and sense upon ony pretence, 

Is heretic, damnable error. 

Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, it was mad, I de- 
clare. 

To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing ; 
Provost John is still deaf to the church's relief, 

And orator Bob \ is its ruin. 

D'rymple mild, § D'rjmple mild, tho* your 

heart's like a child, 
"" And your life like the new driven snaw. 
Yet that winna save ye, auld Satan must have 

For preaching that three's ane an* twa. 

Rumble John,1[ Rumble John, mount the steps 
wi* a groan, 
Cry the book is wi' heresy cramm'd ; 
Tkca lug out your ladle, deal brimstone like 
adlc, 
And roar every note of the damn'd. 

Simper James, |j Simper James, leave the fair 
Killie (lames, 
There's a holier cUacc in your view ; 
I'll lay on your head, that the pack ye'll soon 
lead. 
For puppies like you there's bat few. 

Siogct Sawney,"* Singet Sawney, are ye herd- 
ing the |)enny. 

Unconscious what evils await ; 
Wi' a jump, yell, and howl, alarm every soul, 

For the foul thief is just at your gate. 

Daddy Aul(l,|f Daddy Auld, there's a tod in 

tlte fauld, 

A to<I meikle wanr than the clerk ; 

Tho' ye can do little skaith, yc'il be in at the 

death, 
And if ye canna bite ye may bark. 



• Thi« ivicm was written a short time .ifter the pub- 
tSeation of Mr. MT.ill'* Essay. 

t Mr. M' II. i n 1 A n. 

I Dr. D c. «I Mr. R II. 

H Mr. M'— y. •• Mr. M— ¥. 
tf Mr. A d. 



Davie filust^f,* Davie Blusttr, it for n ui&l 

yfe do muster, 
The corps is no nice of recruits ; 
Yet to worth lets be just, royal blood ye idiglit 
boast, 
If the ass v/as the king of the brutes. 

Jamie Goose,f Jamie Goose, ye ha'e made but 
toom roose, 
In hunting the wicked lieutenant ; 
But the Doctor's your mark, for the L~-d's 
haly ark ; 
He has coopcr*d and cav.d a wrang pin in't. 

Poet Willie, ^ Poet Willie, gie the Doctor s 
volley, 

AVi' your liberty's chain and your wit; 
O'er Pegasus' side ye ne'er hiid a stride. 

Ye but smelt, man, the place where he sh-t. 

Andro Gouk, f Andro Gouk, yc may slander 

the l)o:)k. 

And the book not the waur let me tell ye ; 

Ye are rich, ;ind look big, but lay by hat and 

''vig, 

And ye'll hae a calf's hcnd o' sma' value. 

Barr Steenie, || Barr Stecnie, what mean yc ? 
what mean ye ? 

If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter. 
Ye may ha'e some pretence to havins aud sense, 

Wi' people wha ken yc nae better. 

Ir\-ine side,** Irvine ;ide, wi' your turkey-cock 
piit'.e. 
Of numhoou but snia' is your share ; 
Ye've the figure, 'tis true, even your faes will 
allow. 
And your friends they dare grant you nae 
mair. 

Muirland Jock,ff Jluirland Jock, when the 
L — d makes a rock 

To crush Common Sense for her sins. 
If ill manners were wit, there's no mortal so fit 

To confound the poor Doctor at ance. 

Holy Will, If Holv Will, there was wit i' your 
skull. 
Wicn ye pilfcr'd the alms o' the poor ; 
The timmer is scant, when ye're ta'en for a 
s;iint, 
■UTia should swing in a rape for an hour. 

Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, seize your sp'ritual 
guns. 
Ammunition ye never can need ; 
Your hearts are the stuff, will be powther 
enough, 
And your skull* are storehouses o' lead. 



t Mr- • s, A-r. ^ Dr. A. M II. 

II ^'r- i"— V -, U-r. •• Mr. .S h, C-— b, 

ft .Mr. b a. i| An E^-r m M— «, 



POEMS. 



87 



l*oec Bums, Poet Burns, wi' yottf ptlest-skelp- 
ing tui'ns, 

Wliy desert ye your auld native sliire J 
Your muse is a gipsie, e'en tho' she were tipsie, 

She could ca' us nae waur than we are. 



THE TWA HERDS.* 

O a' ye pious godly flocks, 
Weel fed on pasture's orthodox, 
Wha now wiU keep you frae the fox, 

Or worrying tykes, 
Or wha will tent the waifs and crocks, 

About the dykes ? 

The twa best herds in a' the wast, 
That e'er ga'e gospel horn a blast, 
These five-and-twenty simmers past, 

O ! dool to tell, 
Ha'e had a bitter black out-cast 

Atwcen themsel. 

O, M y, man, and worthy R 11, 

How could you raise so vile a bustle, 
Ye'll see how new-light herds will whistle, 

An' think it fine ! 
The Lord's cause ne'er gat sic a twistle, 

Sin' I ha'e min', 

O, Sirs ! whae'er wad hae especkit, 

Your duty ye wad sae negleckit. 

Ye wha were ne'er by laird respecklt, 

To wear the plaid, 
But by the brutes themselves eleckit, 

To be their guide. 

What flock wi' IM y's flock could rank, 

Sae hale and hearty every shank, 
Nae poison'd soor Arminian stank, 

He let them taste, , 
Frae Calvin's well, aye clear they drank, 

O sic a feast ! 

The thummart, wil'-cat, brock, and tod, 
Weel kend his voice thro' a' the wood, 
He smelt their ilka hole and road, 

Baith out and in, 
And weel he lik'd to shed their bluid. 

And sell their skin. 

Wliat herd like II 11 tell'd his tale, 

His voice was heard thro' muir and dale, 
He kend the Lord's sheep, ilka tail. 

O'er a' the height. 
And saw gin they were sick or hale, 

At the first sight. 

He fine a mangy sheep could scrub, 
Or nobly fling the gospel club. 



•Thi^i piece wasnmongthe first of our Author's pro- 
ductions which he submitted to the public; and was 
occasioned by a dispute between two clergymen, near 
KUmamock, 



And new-light herds could nicely drub, 
Or pay their skin; 

Could shake them o'er the burning duh, 
Or heave them in. 

Sic twa — O ! do I live to see't, 
Sic famous twa should disagreet, 
An' names, like villain, hypocrite, 

Ilk ither gi'en, 
While new-light herds wi' laughin' spite, 

Say neither's liein* ! 

A' ye wha tent the gospel fauld. 

There's D n, deep, and P s, shaul, 

But chiefly thou, apostle A — d 

We trust in thee, 
That thou wilt work them, hot and cauld, 

Till they agree. 

Consider, Sirs, how we're beset. 
There's scarce a new herd that we get, 
But comes frae 'mang that cursed set, 

I winna name, 
I hope frae heav'n to see them yet 

In fiery flame. 

D— — « has been lang our fae, 

M' 11 has wraught us meikle xvac, 

And that curs'd rascal ca'd M' e. 

And baith the S 8, 

That aft ha'e made us black and blae, 

Wi' vengefu' paws. 

Auld W w lang has hatch'd mischief, 

We thought aye death wad bring relief, 
But he has gotten, to our grief, 

Ane to succeed him, 
A chield wha'll soundly buff our beef; 

I meikle dread him. 

And mony a ane that I could tell, 
Wha fain would openly rebel, 
Forby turn-coats amang oursel. 

There S — h for ane, 
I doubt he's but a grey nick quill. 

And that ye'll fin'. 

! a' ye flocks o'er a' the hills. 

By mosses, meadows, moors, and fells, 

Come join your counsel and your skills, 

To cow the lairds, 
And get the brutes the power themsels, 

To choose their herds. 

Then Orthodoxy yet may prance. 

And learning in a woody dance. 

And that fell cur ca'd Common Sense, 

That bites sae sair, 
Be banlsh'd o'er the sea to France : 

Let him bark there. 

Then Shaw's and Dalrymple's eloquence, 
M'— — ll's close nervous excellence, 



BURNS' WORKS. 



M'Q — e's patlietic manly sense, 

And gui(i M' h, 

Wi' S — th, whathro' the heart can glance, 
May a' pack aff. 



THE HENPECK'D HUSBAND. 

Cuks'd be the man, the poorest wretch in life, 
The crouching vassal to the tyrant wife, 
Who has no will but by her high ])ermission ; 
WHio has not sixpence but in her possession ; 
Who must to her his dear friend's secret tell ; 
Who dreads a curtain lecture worse than hell. 
Were such the wife had fallen to my part, 
I'd break her spirit, or I'd break her heart ; 
I'd charm her with the magic of a switch, 
I'd kiss her maids, and kick the perverse b — h. 



ELEGY ON THE YEAR 1788. 

For lords or kings I dinna mourn, 
E'en let them die — for that they're born ! 
But, oh, prodigious to reflect, 
A Tmvmont, Sjrs, is gane to wreck ! 
O Eighty-ei<iht, in thy sma' space 
What dire events ha'e taken place ! 
Of what enjoyments thou hast reft us ! 
In what a piclde thou hast left us ! 

The Spanish empire's tint aliead, 
An' my auld teethlcss Bawtie's dead ; 
The toolzie's teugh 'tween Pitt an' Fox, 
An' our guidwife's wee birdy cocks ; 
The tane is game, a bluidy devil, 
But to the hen-birds unco civil ; 
The tither's dour, has nae sic brcedin', 
But better stuff ne'er claw'd a midden ! 

Ye ministers, come mount the pulpit, 
An' cry till ye be hearse an' rupit ; 
For Eightij-eiijht he wish'd you weel. 
An' gied you a' baitli gear an' meal ; 
E'en mony a plack, an' mony a peck, 
Ye ken yoursels, for little feck ! 

Ye bonnie lasses dight your een, 
For some o' you hae tint a frien' : 
In Eighty-^ght, ye ken, was ta'en 
Whut ye'U ne'er hae to gi'c again. 

Observe the very newt an' sheep, 
How dowff an* dowie now they creep ; 
Nay, even the yirth itsel' does cry. 
For Embro* wells are grutten dry. 

O Eighty-nine tliou's but a bairn, 
An' no owre auld, I hope, to learn ! 
Thou beardless boy, I pray tak' care, 
TUou now has got thy daddy's chair, 



Nae hand-cuff'd, mizzlM, haff-shacklM JiegeHt, 
But, like hiuisel', a full fiee agent. 
Be sure ye follow> out the plan 
Nae waur than he did, honest man ! 
As meikle better as you can. 
January 1, 1789. 



VERSES 

WRITTEN ON A WINDOW OF THE INN AT 
CAR RON. 

We cam na here to view your warks 

In hopes to be mair wise, 
But only, lest we gang to hell, 

It may be nae surprise : 
But when we tirl'd at your door, 

Your porter dought na hear us ; 
Sae may, should we to hell's yetts come, 

Your billv Satan sair us ! 



II 



LINES WRITTEN BY BURNS, 

V,-HILE ON HIS DEATH-RED, TO J N R K K, 

AYRSHIRE, AND FOnWARKED TO Ii'IM IMME- 
DIATELY AFTER THE POEt's DEATH. 

He who of R— k — n sang, lies stiff and dead, 
And a greeu grassv hillock hides his head ; 
Alas ! alas ! a devilish change indeed ! 



At a meeting of the Dumfries-shire Voi-unteecs, 
held to commemorate the anniversary of Rodney's 
victory, April 12th 1782, BunNs was called upon 
for a Song, instead of which he delivered the follow- 
ing Lines: 

INSTEAD of a song, boys, I'll give you a toast, 
Here's the memory of those on the twelfth that 

we lost ; — 
That we lost, did I say, nay, by heav'n ! that we 

found. 
For their fame it shall last while the world goes 

round. 
The next in succession, I'll give you the King, 
^Tioe'er would betray him on high may he swing; 
And here's the grand fabric, our free Consti- 
tution, 
As built on the base of the great Revolution ; 
And longer with Politics not to be cramm'd, 
Be Anarchy curs'd, and be Tyranny damn'd ; 
AtmI who would to Liberty e'er prove disloyal, 
May his sen be a hangman, and he his first triaU 



POEMS. 



69 



STRATHALLAN'S LAMENT. 

Thickest night o'erhangs my dwelling I 

Howling tempests o'er me rave ! 
'urbid torrents, wintry swelling. 

Still surround my lonely cave ! 

Crystal streamlets gently flowing, 

Busy liaunts of base mankind, 
Western breezes, softly blowing, 

Suit not ray distracted mind. 

n the cause of riglit engaged. 

Wrongs injurious to redress, 
lonour's war we strongly waged. 

But the heavens deny'd success, 

luin's wheel has driven o'er us, 

Not a hope that dare attend, 
'he wide world is all before us — 

But a world without a friend !* 



CLARINDA. 

yLAKiNDA, mistress of my soul, 

The measur'd time is run ! 
rhe wretch beneath the dreary pole, 

So marks his latest sun. 

[o what dark cave of frozen night 

Shall poor Sylvander hie ; 
Depriv'd of thee, his life and light, 

The sun of all his joy. 

iVe part, — but by these precious drops, 

That fill thy lovely eyes ! 
Vo other light shall guide my steps, 

Till thy bright beams arise. 

She, the fair sun of all her ses, 
Has l)lest my glorious day : 

\nd shall a glimmering planet fix 
My worship to its ray ? 



A VISION. 

ks I stood by you roofless tower. 

Where the wa' -flower scents the dewy air, 
Where th' Ijowict mourns in her ivy bower. 

And tells the midnight moon her care. 

Che winds were laid, the air was still, 
The stars they shot alang the sky ; 

fhe fox was howling on the hill, 
And the distant echoing glens reply. 



The stream adoxvn its hazelly patt, 
Was rushing by the ruin'd wa's. 

Hasting to join the sweeping Nith,* 
Whase distant roaring swells and fa's. 

The cauld blue north was streaming fortli 
Her lights, wl' hissing eerie din ; 

Athort the lift they start and shift. 
Like fortune's favours, tint as win. 

By heedless chance I turn'd mine eyes,-}- 
And, by the moon-beam, shook, to see 

A stern and stalwart ghaist arise, 
Attir'd as minstrels wont to be. 

Had I a statue been o' stane. 
His darin look had daunted me ; 

And on his bonnet grav'd was plain, 
The sacred posie — Liberty ! 

And frae his harp sic strains did flow. 

Might roused the slumb'ring dead to hear ; 

But oh, it was a tale of woe. 
As ever met a Briton's ear ! 

He sang wi' joy his former day, 
He weeping wail'd his latter times ; 

But what he said it was nae play, 
I winna ventur't in my rhymes.^ 



* Strathallaii, it is presumed, was one of the fnllow- 
■rs of tlie young Chevalier, and is supposed to be lyinp; 
.oncc'al(.'d in some cave of ihe Highlands, after the 
Kittle of Cullodeii. This song was written before the 
t^r 1 78» 



COPY OF A POETICAL ADDRESS 



MR. WILLIAM TYTLER, 

WIIH THE PRESENT OF THE BARd's FICTURK. 

Revered defender of beauteous Stuart, 
Of Stuart, a name once respected, 

A name, which to love was the mark of a true 
heart. 
But now 'tis despised and neglected : 



* Variation. To join yon river on the Strath. 

t Variation. Now looking over firth and fauld. 
Her horn the pale-faced Cyntliia rcar'd; 
When, lo, in form of minstrel auld, 
A stern anil stalwart ghaist appear'd. 

i. This poem, an imperfect copy of which was print- 
ed in Johnson's Museum, is here given from the poet's 
MS. with his last correctio'is. The scenery so finely 
described is taken from nature. The poet is supposed 
to be musing by night on the banks cf the river Clu. 
den, and by the ruins of Lincluilen-Al)bev, founded in 
tlie twelfth century, in the reign of Malcom IV. of 
whose present situation the reader may find some ac- 
count in Pennant's Tour in Scotland, or Grose's Anti- 
quities ( f that division of the island. Such a time and 
such a place are well fitted for holding converse with 
aerial beings. Though this poem has a political bias, 
yel it mav be presumed that no reader ot taste, what- 
ever his opmions mav be, would forgive it being omit, 
ted. Our poet's prudence suppressed the song of Li. 
berli/, perhaiis fortunately for his reputation. It may 
be (juestioncd whether, even in the resources of his 
genius, a strain of poetry could have been found wor- 
i thy of the grandeur and solemnity of this preparation. 



•ro 



BURNS' ^VORKS. 



Tlio' somctliinjj like moisture conglobes in my 
eye, 
Let no one misdeem me disloyal ; 
A poor friendless waad'rer may well claim a 
sigh, 
Still more, if that wand'rer were royal. 

BIy fathers, that name have rever'd on a throne ; 

My fathers have fallen to right it ; 
Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son, 

That name should he scoffingly slight it. 

Still in prayers for King George I most heartily 
join. 
The Queen and the rest of the gentry, 
Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of 
mine ; 
Tlieir title's avow'd by the country. 

But whj^of that epocha make such a fuss, 



But loyalty, truce ! we're on dangerous ground, 
Who knows how the fashions may alter, 

The doctrine, to-day, that is loyalty sound, 
To-morrow may bring us a halter. 

I send ynu a trifle, a head of a hard, 

A trifle scarce worthy your care ; 
But accept it, good Sii, as a mark of regard. 

Sincere as a saint's dyiug prayer. 

Now life's chilly evening dim shades on your 
eye, 

And ushers the long dreary night i 
But you, like the star that athwart gilds the sky. 

Your course to the latest is bright. 

My muse jilted me here, and turned a cor- 
ner on me, and I have not got ag:un into her 
good graces. Do me the justice to believe me 
sincere in my grateful remembrance of the many 
civilities you have honoured mc with since I 
came to Edinburgh, and in assuring you that I 
have the honour to be. 

Revered Sir, 
' Your obliged and very bumble Servant, 
R. BURNS. 
Edinburgh, 1787. 



To ken what French snischief was brewin' ; 

Or what the diunilie Dutc'u were doin' ; 

Thut vile dnup skclper, Emperor Joseph, 

If Venus yet had got his nose off; 

Or ho\v the collieshankie works 

Atween the Russian and the Tuiks ; 

Or if the Swede, before he halt. 

Would play anitlier Charles the Twalt ! 

If Denmark, oiiy body spak o't ; 

Or Poland, wriu had now the tack o't ; 

How cut-throat Prussian blades weiie hingin 

How lihbet Italy v/as singin ; 

If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss. 
Wfre saying or takin nught amiss : 
Or how our merry lads at hame, 

In Britain's court kept up the game : 

How roval George, the Lord leuk o'er him ' 

Was managing St. Stephen's quorum ; 

If sleekit Chatham Will was livin. 

Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in ; 

How (laddie Burke the plea was cookin, 

If Warreu Hastings' neck was yeukin ; 

How cesses, stents, and fees were raxed, 

Or if bare a — yet werp taxed ; 

The news o' princes, dukes, and earls, 

Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera-girls , 

If that daft Buckie, Geordie Wales, 

Was thrcshin still at hizzies' tails. 

Or if he was growin oughtlins dous^r, 

Ari<l no a perfect kintra cooser 

A' this and mair I never heard of; 
And, but for you, I might despair'd of. 
So gratefu', back your news I send you, 
ATid pray, a' guid things may attend you j 

Elusland, Monday Morning, 1790. 



THE FOLLOWING POEM 

WAS WRITTEN TO A GENTLEMAN WHO HAD 

SENT HIM A NEWSPAPER, AND OFFERED 

TO CONTINUE IT FREE OF EXPENSE. 

Kind sir, I've read your paper through, 
And faith, to me, 'twas really new ! 
How guessed ye, sir, what maist I wanted ? 
This moDy a day I've grain'd and gaunted, 



POEM. 

ON TASTORAL POETRY. 

Hail Poesie ! thou nymph reserved ! 

In chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerved 

Frae common sense, or sunk enerved 

'Mang keaps o' clivers ; 
And och ! o'er aft thy joes hae starved, 

'JMid a' thy favours ! 

Say, Lassie, why thy train amang, 
While loud the wurap's heroic clang, 
And sock or buskin skelp alang 

To death or marriage ; 
Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang 

But wi' miscarriage? 

In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives ; 
Eschylus' pen Will Shakespeare drives ; 
Wee Pope, the knurlin, 'till him rives 

Horatian fame ; 
In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives 

Even Sappho's flame. 



POEMS. 



71 



Ilut thee, Tlieocritus, wha matches ? 
They're no herd's ballats, Maro's catches ; 
Squire Pope but busks his skinliii patches 

O' heathen tatters : 
I pass by hunders, nameless wretches, 

That ape their betters. 

In this braw age o' wit an lear. 

Will nane the Shepherd's whistle mair 

Blaw sweetly in its native air 

And rural grace ; 
And wi' the far-famed Grecian share 

A rival place ? 

Yes ! there is ane ; a Scottish callan ! 
There's ane ; come forrit, honest Allan ! 
Thou need na jouk behint the hallan, 

A chiel so clever ; 
The teeth o' time may gnaw Tamtallan, 

But thou's for ever. 

Thou paints auld nature to the nines, 

In thy sweet Caledonian lines ; 

Nae gowden stream thro' myrtles twines, 

Wliere Philomel, 
While nightly breezes sweep the vines, 

Her griefs will tell ! 

In gowany glens thy biirnie strays. 
Where bonuie lassies bleach their clues ; 
Or trots by hazelly shaws or braes, 

Wi' hawthorns gray, 
Where blaclibirdsjoin the shepherd's lays 

At close o' day. 

Thv rural loves ,ire nature's sel ; 
Ii'ae bombast spates o' nonsense swell ; 
I'.'ae siiaj) conceits, but that sweet spell • 

O' witcliia' love, 
That charm that can the strongest quell, 

The sternest move. 



SKETCH. 

NEW YEAR'S DAY. 

TO MRS. DU.VI.Ol". 

This day, Time winds th' exhausted chain, 
To run the twelvemonths' length again : 
I see the old bald-pated fellov/. 
With ardent eyes, complexion sallow, 
Adjust the unimpair'd machine. 
To wheel the equal, dull routine. 

The absent lover, minor heir, 

In vain assail him with tlieir prayer. 

Deaf as my friend he sees them press. 

Nor makes the hour one moment less. 

Will you (the Major's with the hounds. 

The happy tenants share his rounds ; 

Coila's fair Rachel's care to-day,* 

And blooming Keith's engaged with Gray) ; 



From housewife care-s a minute borrow^. 
— That grandchild's cap will do So-ujojtow- 
And join with mc a moralizing. 
This (lav's propitious to be wise in. 
First, what did yesteralght deliver ; 
" Another year is gone for ever." 
And what is this day's strong suggestion ! 
" The ))assing moment's all we rest on !" 
Rest on — for what ! What do we here ? 
Or why regard the passing y»ar ? 
Will tiinc, amus'd with proverb'd lure, 
Add to our date one minute more ? 
A few days may — a few years must- 
Repose us in the silent dust. 
Then, is it wise to damp our bliss • 
Yes, all such reasonings are amiss ! 
The voice of nature loudly cries. 
And many a message from the skies, 
That something in us never dies : 
That on this frail, uncertain state. 
Hang matters of eternal weight ; 
That future-life in worlds unknowa 
Must take its hue from this alone : 
Whether as heavenly gloiy bright, 
Or dark as misery's woeful night — 
Since then, my honour'd first of friends, 
On this poor being all depends : 
Let us th' important now employ. 
And live as those who never die. 
Tho' you, with days and honours crown'd. 
Witness that filial circle round, 
(A sight life's sorrows to repulse, 
A sight pale envy to convulse) 
Others now claim your chief regard — 
Yourself, you wait your bright reward. 



* This vming lady was drawing a picture of Coila 
from the Vision, see page 69. 



EXTEMPORE, 

ON THE LATK 

MR. WILLIAM SMELLIE.* 

;. LTiTOR OF THK PHILOSOPHY OF NATURAL HIS* 
T01:v, .^^■n MKMBER of THK ANTIQUARIAK 
.\NI) IIOVAI. SOCIETIES OF EDIKBUR'GH. 

To Crochallan came 
The c!d cock'd hat, the grey surtout, the same ; 
His bristling beard just rising in its might, 
'Twas four long nights and days to «haWn(f 

night. 
His uncombed grizzly lock* wild - staring, 

thatch'd, 
A head for thought profound aud clear, un- 

match'd ; < 

Yet, tho' his caustic wit was biting, rude. 
His heart was warm, benevolent and good. 



» Mr. Sineliie, and our poet, were both members of 
a club in Kdiuburgh, under tbe name of CcoclutUaa 
Kenciblcs. . . - 



78 



BURNS* WORKS. 



.POETICAL INSCRIPTION 



AN ALTAR TO INDEPENDENCE, 

AT KERBOUCHTRT, THE SEAT OF MR. HERON- 
WRITTEN IK SUMMER, 1795. 

Thou of an independent rnind, 

With soul resolved, with soul resigned ; 

Prepared power's proudest frown to brave, 

Who wilt not be, nor have a slaver"; 

Virtue alone who dost revere. 

Thy own reproach alone dost fear, 

Approach this shrine, and worship here. 



SONNET, 



THE DEATH OF MR. RmDEL. 

No more, ye warblers of the wood, no more, 
Nor pour your descant grating on my ear : 
Thou young-eyed Spring thy charms I can. 
not bear ; 
More welcome were to me grim Winter's wild- 
est roar. 

How can ye please, ye flowers, with all your 
dies ? 
Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend : 
How can I to the tuneful strain attend ? 
That strain pours round th' untimely tomb 
where Riddel lies.* 

Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe. 
And soothe the Virtues weeping on this bier ; 
The Man of Worth, and has not left his peer. 

Is in his ' narrow house' for ever darkly low. 

Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others gi-eet ; 
Me, mem'ry of uiy loss will only meet. 



MONODY 



A LADY FAMED FOR HER CAPRICE. 

How cold is that bosom which folly once fir'd, 
How pale is that cheek where the rouge late- 
ly glisten'd : 
How silent that tongue which the echoes oft 
tired, 
How dull is that ear which to flattery so 
listened. 



If sorrow and anguish their exit await, 

From friendship and dearest affection re* 
moved ; 

How doubly severer, Eliza, thy fate. 

Thou diedbt unwept, as thou livedst unloved. 

Loves, graces, and virtues, I call not on you ; 

So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a 
tear s ^ 

But come, all ye offspring of folly so true, 

And flowers let us cuU for Eliza's cold bier. 

We'll search through the garden for each silly 
flower. 
We'll roam through the forest for each id^e 
weed ; 
But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower. 
For none e'er approach'd her but rued the 
rash deed. 

We'U sculpture the marble, we'll measure the 
lay ; 
Here Vanity strums on her idiot lyi-e ; 
There keen indignation shall dart on her prey. 
Which spurning contempt shall redeem from 
his ire. 



THE EPITAPH. 

Here lies, now a prey to insulting neglect. 
What once was a butterfly gay iu life's 
beam : 

Want only of wisdom denied her respect, 
Want only of goodness denied her esteem. 



• Robert Riddel, Esq. of Friar's Carse, a very wor- 
thy Character, and one to whom our bard thought 
bixoself under many obligations. 



ANSWER TO A MANDATE 

sent by the surveyor of the windows, 

CARRIAGES, &C. to EACH FARMER, ORDER- 
ING HIM TO SEND A SIGNED LIST OF HIS 
HORSES, SERVANTS, WHEEL-CARRIAGES, &C. 
AND WHETHER HE WAS A MARRIED MAK 
OR A BACHELOR, AND WHAT CUILDREK 
THEY HAD. 

Sir, as your mandate did request, 

1 send you here a fuithfu' list, 

IMy horses, servants, carts, and gralth, 

To which I'm free to tak my aith. 

Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle, 

I hue four brutes o* gallant mettle. 

As ever drew before a pettle. 

My liand-ufre,* a guid auld has been, 

And wight and wiilu' a' his days seen ; 

My hand-a-Jiin,f a guid brown filly, 

Wha aft has borne me safe frae Killie ; j: 



• The fore-horse on the left-hand, in the ploush. 
I The hiiuliTiost on the left-hand, in tlie plough, 
f KUmaiaock, 



POEMS. 



73 



And your auld borough mony a time, 
In days when riding was nae crime : 
My fur-a-hin,* a guid, grey beast, 
As e'er in tug or tow was traced : 
The fourth, a Highland Donald hasty, 
A d-inn'd red-wud, Kilburnie blastie. 
For-by a cowte, of cowtes the wale, 
As ever ran before a tail ; 
An' he be spared to be a beasl^ 
He'll draw me fifteen pund at least. 

Wheel carriages I hae but few, 
Three carts, and twa are feckly new. 
An auld wheel-barrow, mair for token, 
Ae leg and baith the trams are broken ; 
I made a poker o' the spindle. 
And my auld mither brunt the trundle. 
For men, I've three mischievous boys, 
Run-deils for rantin and for noise ; 
A gadsman ane, a thresher t'other, 
Wee Davoc bauds the nowt in fother. 
I rule them, as I ought, discreetly, 
And often labour them completely. 
And aye on Sundays duly nightly, 
I on the questions tairge them tightly, 
'Till, faith; wee Davoc 's grown sae gleg, 
(Tho* scarcely langer than my leg) 
He'll screed you aff effectual calling, 
As fast as ony in the dwalling. 

I've nane in female servant station. 
Lord keep me aye frae a' temptation ! 
I hae nae wife, and that my bliss is, 
■ And ye hae laid nae tax on misses ; 
For weans I'm mair than weel contented. 
Heaven sent me ane mair than I wanted : 
My sonsie, smirking, dear-bought Bess, 
She stares the daddie in her face, 
Enough of ought ye like but grace. 
But her, my bonny, sweet, wee lady, 
I've said enough for her already, 
And if ye tax her or her mither, 
By the L — d ye'se get them a' thegither ! 

And now, remember, JMr. Aiken, 

Nae kind of license out I'm taking. 

Thro' dirt and dub for life ril paidle. 

Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle ; 

I've sturdy stumps, tlie Lord be thankit ! 

And a' my gates on foot I'll shank it. 

This list wi' my ain hand I've wrote it, 
The djy and date as under notet ; 
Then know all ye whom it concerns, 
Subscripsi huic, 

ROBERT BURNS. 



» The hindmost on the right-hand, in tho plough. 



IMPROMPTU, 



S EIKTH-DAT, 



4th November, 1793. 

Old Winter with his frosty beard. 
Thus once to Jove his prayer preferr'd ; 
" What have I done of all the year, 
To bear this hated doom severe ? 
My cheerless sons no pleasure know ; • 
Night's horrid car drags, dreary, slow : 
My dismal months no joys are crowning, 
But spleeny English hanging, drowning. 

Now, Jove, for once be mighty civil ; 

To counterbalance all this evil ; 

Give me, and I've no more to say, 

Give me Maria's natal day ! 

That brilliant gift will so enrich me. 

Spring, Sumraar, Autumn cannot match me :' 

" 'Tis done !" says Jove ; so ends my story. 

And Winter once rejoiced in glory. 



ADDRESS TO A LADY. 

Oh wert thou in, the cauld blast. 

On yonder lea, on yonder lea. 
My plaidie to the angry airt, 

I'd shelter thee, I'd s'nelter thee : 
Or did misfortune's bitter storms 

Around thse blaw, around thee blaw. 
Thy bield should be my bosom. 

To sliare it a', to share it a'. 

Or were I in the wildest waste, 

Sae black and bare, sae black and bare, 
The desert were a paradise. 

If thou wert theie, if thou wert there. 
Or were I monarch o' the globe, 

Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign ; 
The brightest jewel in ray crown 

Wad be my queed, wad be my queen. 



TO A YOUNG LADY, 



JllSS JESSY L- 



-, OF DUMFRIES ; 
WITH BOOKS WHICH THE BARD PRESENTED HXR. 

Thine be the volumes, Jessy fair, 
And with them take the poet's prayer ; 
That fite may in her fiirest p^ge. 
With every kindliest, best presage 
Of future bliss, enrol thy name : 
With native worth, and spotless fame, 
And wakeful caution, still aware 
Of ill — hut chief, man's felon snare; 
All hlanieli'ss joys on earth we find. 
And all the treasures of the mind — 
These be thy guardian and reward ; 
So prays thy faithful friend, the bard. 



n 



BURNS' WORKS. 



SONNET, 

WBITTKX ON THE S5tH JANL'ARV, 1793 THE 
BIRTH-DAY OF THE AUTHOR, OM HEARING A 
THRUSH SING IN A MORNING WALK. 

Sjno on, sweet thrusli, upon tlie leafless bough, 
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain, 
See aged Winter 'mid his surly reign. 

At thy blythe carol clears his furrewed brow. 

So ia lone poverty's dominion drear. 

Sits meek content with light unanxious heart, 
Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part, 

Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear. 

I thank thee, Author of this opening day ! 

Thou whose bright sun now gilds yoa orient 
skies ! 

Riches denied, tliy boon was purer joys, 
What wealth eould never give nor take away ! 

Yet come, thou child of poverty and care, 
The mite high heaven bestowed, that mite with 
thee I'll share. 



EXTEMPORE, 



ON UEFUSING TO EINE WITH HIM, AFTER HAV- 
ING BEEN PROMISED THE FIRST OF COM- 
PANY, AND THE FIRST OF COOKERY, 17th 
DECEMBER, 1795. 

No more of your guests, be they titled or not, 
And cookery the first in the nation : 

Who is proof to thy personal converse and wit. 
Is proof to all other temptation. 



TO MR. S— E. 

WITH A PRESENT OF A DOZEN OF PORTER. 

O HAD the malt thy strength of mind. 
Or hops the flavour of thy wit ; 

'Twcre drink for first of human kind, 
A gift that e'en fur S — e were fit. 

Jerusalem Tavern, Dumfries. 



POEM, 

ADDRESSED TO JIR. MITCHKLL, COLLBCTOa OF 
EXCISE, DUJIFRIES, 1796. 

Friend of the poet, tried and leal, 
Whn, wanting thee, might beg or steal ; 
Alake, alake, the meikle deil, 

Wi' a' his witches 
Arc at it, skelpiu' ! jig and reel, 

la my poor pouches. 



I, modestly, fu' fain wad hint it, 
That one pound one, I sairly want it J 
If wi' the liizzie down ye send it, 

It would be kind ; 
And while my heart wi' life-blood dunted 

I'd bcar't in mind. 

So may the auld year gang out moaning 
To see the new come laden, groaning, 
Wi' double plenty o'er the loaning 

To thee and thine ; 
Domestic peace and comforts crowning 

The boil design. 

POSTSCRIPT. 

Ye've heard this while how I've been licket, 
And by fell death was nearly nicket : 
Grim looa ! he gat me by the fechet, 

And bair me bheuk ; 
But, by guid luck. I lap a wicket, 

And turn'd a neuk. 

But by that health, I've got a share o't. 
And by that life I'm promised mair o't. 
My hale and wecl I'll tuk' a care o't 

A tenticr way : 
Then farewell folly, iiide and hair o't. 

For ance and aye. 



SENT TO A GENTLEMAN WHOM HE HAD 
OFFENDED. 

The friend whom \rild from wisdom's way, 
The fumes of wine infuriate send ; 

(Not moony madness more astray) 
Who but deplores that hapless friend ? 

Wine was th' insensate frenzie<l part. 
Ah why should I such scenes outlive ! 

Scenes so abhorrent to my heart ! 
'Tis thine to pity and forgive. 



POEM ON LIFE, 

ADDRESSED TO COLONEL DE PETSZEK, 
DUMFIUES, 1796. 

My honoured colonel, deep I feel 

Your interest in the poet's weal ; 

j Ah ! how snia' heart h;ie I to spec! 

The steep Parnassus, 
Surrounded thus by bolus pill, 

And potion glasses. 

O what a canty world were it, 

Would p.iin and care, and sickness spare it : 

And fortune, favour, worth, and merit, 

As they deserve ; 
(And aye a' rowth, roast beef and claret ; 

Syne wha would starve) ? 



POEMS. 



7S 



I 



Dame life, tho' fiction out may trick her. 
And is paste gems and frippery deck her ; 
Oh ! flickering, feeble, and unsicker 

I've found her still. 
Aye wavering like the willow wicker, 

'Tweeu good and ill. 

Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan, 
Watches like baudrons by a rattan, 
Our sinfu' saul to get a (^laut on _ 

Wi' felon ire ; 
Syne, whip ! his tail ye'll ne'er cast saut on. 

He's aff like fire. 

Ah Nick ! ah Nick, it is na fair, 
First showing us the tempting ware, 
Bright wines and bonnie Lssses rare. 
To jiut us daft ; 
Syne weave unseen thy spider's snare 

liell's damn'd waft. 

Poor man, the flie, aft bizzes by. 
And aft as chance he comes thee nigh. 
Thy auld damn'd elbow yeuks wi' joy, 

And hellish pleasure ; 
Already in thy fancy's eye, 

' Thy sicker treasure. 

Soon heels o'er gowdio ! in he gangs, 
And like a sheep-bead on a tangs, 
Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs 

Anil murdering wrestle, 
As dangling in the wind he hangs 

A gibbet's tassel 

B".t lest you {hink I am uncivil, 

To plagvie you with tbis draunting drivel, 

Alijuring a' intentions evil, 

1 quat my pen ; 
Tiie Lojd preserve us frae the devil ! 

Amen ! amen ! 



ADDRESS TO THE TOOTH-ACHE. 

Mr curse upon your venom'd stang. 
That shoots my tortur'd gums alang ; 
And thro' my lugs giis mony a twang, 

Wi' gnawing vengeance ; 
Tearing my nerves wi ' bitter pang, 

Like racking engines I 

When fevers burn, or ague freezes, 
llheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes ; 
Our neighbour's syai])athy may ease us, 

Wi' pitying moan ; 
But thee — thou hell o" a' diseases. 

Aye mocks our groan ! 

Adov/n my beard the slavers trickle ; 
I throw the wee stools o'er the meikle, 
As round the fire the giglets keckle. 

To see me loup ; 
While raving mad, I wish a heckle 

Were in their doup. 



O' a' the niim'rous human dools, 

111 har'sts, daft bargains, cutty stools. 

Or worthy friends raked i' the mools, 

Sad sight to see ! 
The tricks o' knaves or fash o* fools. 

Thou bear'st the greo, 

Wiere'er that place be, priests ca' hell, 
Whence a' the tones o' mis'ry yell. 
And ranked plagues their numbers tell, 

In dreadfu* raw. 
Thou, Tooth-ache, surely bear'st the bell, 

Amang them a' ! 

O thou grim mischief-m.aking chiel, 
That gars the notes o' discord squeel, 
'Till daft mankind aft dance a reel 

In gore a shoe-thick ;— 
Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weel 

• A towmond's Tooth- Ach«t 



TO ROBERT GRAHAM, Esq 

OF riNTRy, 

ON KECEIVING A FAVOUR. 

I CAI.L no goddess to inspire my strains, 
A fabled Muse may suit a bard that feigns ; 
Friend of my life ! my ariiL'ot spirit burns, 
And all the tribute of my heart returns, 
For boons accorded, goodness ever new, 
The gift still dearer as the giver you. 

Thou orb of day ! thou other paler light ! 
And all ye many sparkling stars of night ; 
If au'jht that giver from my mind efface; 
If I that giver's bounty e'er disgrace ; 
Then roll to me, along your wandering sphere^ 
Only to number out a villain's years ! 



EPITAPH ON A FRIEND. 

An honest man here lies at rest. 
As e'er God with his image blest. 
The friend of man, the friend of truth ; 
The friend of age, and guide of youth : 
Few hearts like his, with virtue warm'd, 
Few heads with knowledge so inform'd : 
If there's another world, he lives in bliss ; 
If there is none, he made the best of this. 



A GRACE BEFORE DINNER. 

O Thou, who kindly dost provide ' 

For ev'ry creature's want ! 
We bless thee, God of nature wide, 

For all thy goodness lent ; 



EUuNS' WORKS. 



And if it i)lL'n.?2 tlioc LcavsnJy gnid:, 
I\Iay never worse be sent ; 

But whether granted, or denied, 
Lord bless us with content ! 



TO MY DEAR AKD 3IUCH HONOUIIED FRIEICD, 

MRS. DUNLOP, OF DUNLOP, 

ON SENSIBILITT. 

Sensibility how charmicg, 

Thou, my friend, canst truly tell ; 

But distress, with horrors arminj^, 
Thou hast also known too well ! 

Fairest flower, behold the lily. 

Blooming in the sunny ray ; 
Let the blast sweep o'er the valley, 

See it prostrate on the clay. 



Hear the wcod-luk charm die forest, 
Tellipg o'er his' little joys : 

Hapless bird ! a. prey the surest, 
To each pirate of the skies. 

Dearly bought the hidden treasure, 
Finer feelings can bestow : 

Chords thiit vibrate sweetest pleasure, 
Thrill the deepest notes of woe. 



A VERSE, 



COMPOSED AND REPEATED BY BURNS, TO THS 
MAST2R OF THE HOUSE, ON TAKING LEAVX 
AT A PLACE IN THE HIGHLANDS WHERE HS 
HAD BEEN HOSPITABLY ENTERTAINED. 

When death's dark stream I ferry o'er ; 

A time that surely shall come ; 
In heaven itself, I'll ask no more, 

Than just a Highland welcome. 



ADDITIONAL PIECES OF POETRY, 

From the Reliques, Published in 1808, 

BY MR. CROMEK. 

[The contributions were poured so copiously upon Dr. Currie that selection became a duty, and lie 
put aside several interesting pieces both in prose and versa, which would have done honour to 
the Poet's memory : But besides these there were otlu^r pieces extant, which did not come 
under the Doctor's notice : All of them, both of the rejected and discovered description, have 
since been collected and published by Mr. Cronick, whose personal devotion to the Poet, and 
generally to the poetry of his country, rendered him a most assiduous collector. The additional 
pieces of poetry so collected and published by Croraek, are given here. The additional songs 
and correspondence, taken from the Reliques and his more recent publication, *' Select Scot« 
tish Songs," will each appear ia the proper place.] 



ELEGY 

ON 

MR. WILLL\IM CREECH, 

BOOKSELLER, EDINBURGH. 



AuLD chuckle Reekie's* sair distres^t, 
Down droops her ance wcel burnish't crest, 
Nae joy her bonie buskit nest 

Can yield ava. 
Her darling bird that she loe's best, 

Willie's awa ! 



• Edinburgh. 



n. 

O Willie was a witty wight, 

And had o' things an unco' slight; 

Auld Reekie ay he keepit tight. 

And trig an* braw: 
But now they'll busk her like a fright, 
Willie's awa ! 



HL 

The stiffest o' them a' he bow'd, 
The bauUlest o' thera a' he cow'd ; 
They durst nae mair than he allow'd,. 
That was a law : 
We've lost a birkie weel worth gowd, 
Willie's awa ! 



POEMS. 



77 



Now gawkies, tawpies, srowks tm] fuo!?. 
Fr;ie colleges and boiinling schools, 
May sprout like simmer pmldock-stools 

In glen or shuw ; 
He wha could brush them down to mooU 
Willie's awa ! 



The breth'ren o' the Commerce-Chaumcr * 
May mourn their loss wi' doolfu' clamour ; 
He was a dictionar and grammar 

Amang them a' ; 
I fear they'll now mak mony a stammer 

Willie's awa ! • 

VI, 

Nae mair we see his levee door 
Philosophers and Poets pour,+ 
And toothy critics by the score 

In bloody raw ! 
The adjutant o' a' the core 

Willie's awa ! 

VII. 

Now worthy G ■ y's latin face, 

T— — r's and G— — 's modest grace ; 

M'K e, S 1, such a brace 

As Rome ne'er saw ; 
They a' maun meet some ither place, 
Willie's awa ! 

VIII. 
Poor Burns — e'en Scotch drink canna quicken, 
He cheeps like some bewildered chicken, 
Scar'd frae it's minnie and the cleckin 
By hoodie-craw ; 
Grief's gien his heart an unco kickin*, 
Willie's awa ! 

IX. 
Now ev'r}' sour-mou'd grinin' blellum. 
And Calvin's fock, are fit to fell him ; 
And self-conceited critic skellum 

His quill may draw ; 
He wha could brawlie ward their helium 
Willie's awa ! 

X. 

Up wimpling stately Tweed I've sped. 
And Eden scenes on crystal Jed, 
And Ettrick banks now roaring red 

While tempests blaw ; 
But every joy and pleasure's fled 

Willie's awa ! 

XL 

l\Iay I be slander's common speech ; 
A text for infamy to preach ; 



And lastly, streekit out to bleach 

In winter snaw ; 
When I forget thee I Wii.uk Ciieech, 
Tho' far awa '. 

XII. 
May never wicked fortune touzle him ! 
iVIay never wicked men bamboozle him ' 
Until a pow as auld's Jlethusalem ! 

He canty claw ! 
Then to the blessed, New Jerusalem 

Fleet wing awa ! 



ELEGY 



PEG NICHOLSON.* 

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, 
As ever trode on airn ; 
But now she's floating down the Nith, 
And past the Mouth o' Cairn. 

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, 
And rode thro' thick and thin ; 
But now she's floating down the Nith, 
And wanting even the skin. 

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, 
And ance she bore a priest ; 
But now she's floating down the Nith, 
For Sol way fish a feast. 

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, 
And the priest he rode her salr : 
And much oppressed and bruised she was ; 
—As priest-rid cattle are, &c. &c. 



ODE TO LIBERTY. 

(Imperfect). 

[In a letter to Mrs. Duhlop, the poet savs :— The sub. 
ject is liberty: You know, my hoiioureii friend 
now dear tlie theme is to me. I design it an irregu- 
lar Ode for General Washington's birth-day. After 
having mentioned the degeneracy of other kingdoma 
I come to Scotland thus] : 

Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heatlis among. 
Thee, famed for martial deed and sacred song, 

To thee I turn with swii^ming eyes ; 
Where is that soul of freedom fled ? 
Iramingled with the mighty iIlvk! ! 

Beneath that hallowed tu"f uiiers Wall.vce 
lies ! 



• TheChamberofCommerceofEdinburghofwhich « Margaret Nicholson, the maniac, whose visitaHnn€ 
Mr. C. was Secretary. very much alarme.l George the lluid for hi^ \\ie. In 

t Many htcrary gentlemen were accustomed to meet naming their steeds, the poet and Iiis friend \-eol sprm 
at Mr. Creech's liouse at breakfast. Burns oficn met • to have had a pr. fcrcnce, in tha uhv of <loiii- honmn 
with them there, when he Killed, and lieiice the name of course, for the worthies who had used freellora with 
Of LtVK. I i)o;h priest and king. 



■78 



BURMS* WORKS. 



Hear it hot, WaixacE, In tW M of death ! 

Ye babbling winds, in silence sweep ; 

Disturb not ye the hero's sleep, 
Nor give the coward secret breath.— 

Is this the power in freedom's war 

That wont to bid the battle rage ? 
Behold that eye which shot immortal hate, 

Crushing the despot's proi'dest bearing. 
That arm which, nerved with thundering fate. 

Braved iisui-pation's boldest daring ! 
One quenched in darkness like the sinking star, 
And one the palsied arm of tottering, powerless 
age. 



A PRAYER— IN DISTRESS. 

O THOU Great Being ! what thou art 

Surpasses me to know ; 
Yet sure I am, that known to thee 

Are all thy works below. 

Thy creature here before thee stands, 

All wretched and distrest ; 
Yet sure those ills that wring my soul 

Obey thy high behest. 

Sure Thou, Almighty, canst not act 

From cruelty or wrath ; 
O, free my weary eyes from tears, 

Or close them fast in death I 

But if I must afflicted be. 

To suit some wise design ; 
Then man my soul with firm resolves 

To bear and not repine ! 



A PRAYER, 

WHEK FAINTING I'lTS, AND OTHKK. ALARMING 
SYMPTOMS OF A I'l.KUKISY Oil SOMF. OTIIKR 
DANGEROUS niSOUDEU, WHICH INDKED 
STII.L THREATENS -ME, FIRST PUT NATURE 
ON THE ALARM. 

O THOU unknown, Almighty Cause 

Of all my hope and fear I 
In whose dread presence, ere an hour, 

Perhaps I must appear. 

If I have wander'd in those paths 

Of life 1 ought to shun ; 
As something, loudly, in my breast, 

Remonstrates I have done ; 

Thou know'st that Thou hast formed me 

With passions wild and strong ; 
And list'ning to their witching voice 

Has often led me wrong. 

liHiere human tveakness has come short, 
Or frailty slept aside, 



Do Thou, All Good I /or suck Tiiou isU 
lu shades of darkness hide. 

Where with intention I have err'd, 

No otht-r plea I have. 
But, Thoit art good ; and goodness still 

Delisrhteth to forgive. 



DESPONDENCY: 

A HYMK. 

Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene ! 

Have I so found it full of pleasing charms ! 
Some drops of joy with draughts of ill be- 
tween : 

Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewing 
storms : 
Is it departing pangs my soul alarm.s ? 

Or death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode? 
For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms ; 

I treiul)le to approach an angrv God, 
And justly smart beneath his sin-avenging rod. 

Falti would I say, ' Forgive my foul offence !' 

Fain promise never more to disobey ; 
But, shoulil my author health agaiti dispense. 

Again I might desert fair virtue's way; 
Again in folly's path might go astray ; 

Again exalt the brute and sink the man ; 
Then how should I for heavenly merry pray. 

Who act so counter heavenly mercy's plan ? 
Who sin so oft have mourn'd yet to tenjptatioa 
ran? 

O Thou, great governor of all below ! 

If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee, 
Thy nod can make the tempest ce.ise to blow, 

Or still the tumult of the raging sea ; 
With that controling pow'r assist ev'n me. 

Those headlong furious p.assion9 to con&ne ; 
For all unfit I feel my powers to be. 

To rule their torrent in th' allowed line, 
O, aid me with thy help. Omnipotence Divine ' 



LINES 6N RELIGION. 

" 'Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morning 

bright ; 
'Tis this, that gilds the horror of our night ! 
U'lien wealth forsakes us, and when friends are 

few ; 
When friends are faithless, or when foes pursue; 
'Tis this that wards the blow, or stills the smart, 
Disarms affliction, or repels its dart : 
Within the breast bids purest raptures rise, 
Bids smiling conscience spread her cloudless 

skies," 



POEMS. 



19 



UnSTLU^ IN VERSE 



TO J. LAPRAIK. 

^*■ Sept. \Sth, 1785. 

GutD spe^d an' furder to you Johtiy, 
Guid health, hale han's, an' weather bony ; 
Now when ye're nickan down fu' canny 

The staff o' bread, 
May ye ne'er want a stoup o' brany 

To clear your head. 

May Boreas never thresh your rigs, 
Nor kick your rickles aff their legs, 
Sendin' the stuff o'er inuiis an' haggs 

Like drivin' wrack ; 
But may the tapmast grain that wags 

Come to the sack. 

I'm biziie too, an'.skelpin' at it, 

Hot bitter, daudin showers hae w:it it. 

Sat my auld stunipie pen I gat it 

Wi' muckle wark, 
An' took my joctelcg * an' whatt it, 

Like or.y dark. 

It's now twa month that I'm your debtor, 
For your braw, nameless, dateless letter, 
Abusin' me for harsh ill nature 

On holy men. 
While deil a hair yoursel ye'ie better, 

But mair profane. 

But let the kirk-folk ring their bells, 
Let's sing about our noble sels ; 
We'll cry nae jads frae heathen hills 

To help, or roose us, 
But browster wives f an' whisky stills, 

They are the muses. 

Your friendship Sir, I winna quat it, 

An' if ye mak' objections at it, 

Then baa' ia nicve some day we'll knot it, 

An' witness take. 
An' when wi* tJsquabae we've wat it 

It winna break. 

But if the beast and branks he spar'd 
Till kye be gaun without the herd. 
An' a' the vittel in the yard. 

An' theekit right, ^ . 
I mean your ingle-side to guard ' ^' 

Ae winter night. 

Thtn muse-intpirin' aqua-vits 

Shall make us baith sae biythe an' witty, 

Till ye forget ye're auld an' gatty, 

An' be as canty 
Aa ye were nine year less than thretty. 

Sweet ane-an'-twenty. 



But Stocks are tfoWpet ♦ ^vl' tke Jilast, 
An' now the sinn keeks in the west 
Then I maUn rin amang the rest 

An' quat my chanter) 
Sae I subscribe iriysel in haste, 

Your's, Rab the Ranter< 



REV. JOHN M'MATH, 

INCLOSING A COPY or HOLY WILMk'* PRAYtR, 
WHICH HE HAD RECiUfSTED. 

Sept. nth, 1785. 
While at the stook the shearers cow'r 
To shun the bitter blaudin' show'r. 
Or in gulravagof rinnin scow'r 

To pass the time. 
To you I dedicate the hour 

In idle rhyme. 

My musie, tir'd wi' mnny a sonnet 

On gown, an' ban', an' douse black bonnet, 

Is grown right eerie now she's done it, 

Lest they shou'd blame her, 
An' rouse their holy thunder on it 

And anatheiti her. 

I own 'twas rash, an' rather hardy. 
That I, a simple, countra bardie, 
Shou'd meddle wi' a pack sae sturdy, 

Wha, if they ken me, 
Can easy, wi' a single wordie. 

Louse h-Il upon me. 

But I gae mad at their grimaces, 
Their sighan, cantan, gra^c-])roud fires. 
Their three-mil« prayers, an hauf-mile graces, 

Their raxan conscience, 
Whaws gi-ecJ, revenge, on' pride disgraces 

Waur nor their nonsense. 

There's Gaun, \ miska't waur than a l)ea$t, 
Wha has mair honor in his bi'east 
Than mony scores as guid's the priest 

Wha sae abus't him. 
An' may a bard no crack his jest 

What way they've use't him. 

See him, || the poor man's friend in need, 
The gentleman in word an' deed, 
An' shall his fame an' honour bleea 

By worthless skellums, 
An' not a muse erect her head 

To cowe the blellums ? 



• Jocteleg—a knife. 
^ 9rowst<r wivu—A\eho\xie wive». 



• Cowpet — Tumbled over. 

t ^u/racaef — Running in a confused, disorderly 
manner, like boys when leaving school. 

X Gavin Hamilton, Ksq. 

II 'ITic poet has introduced the two first lines pf this 
stanza into the dedication of his works ty Mr. Haini( 
ton. 



so 

Pope, haJ 1 tliy saliiv's Hai Is 
To gie the rascals tlieir Jfscrt", 
Fd rip tlieir rotten, hollow luMrfi, 

An' tfU aloud 
Their jugglin' hocus-pocus arts 

To cheat the crowd, 

God knows, I'm no the thing I shou'd be, 
Nor ami cv'n the thing I coii'd be, 
But twenty times, I rutlier wuu'd be 

An atheist clean, 
Than under gospel colours hid be 

Just lor a screen. 

An honest man may like a glass, 
An honest man may like a luss, 
But mean revenge, an' malice fause 

He'll still disdain, 
An' then cry zeal for gospel laws. 

Like some we ken. 

They take religion in their mouth ; 
They talk o' mercy, grace, an' truth, 
For what ? to gie their malace skouth 

On some puir wi(;ht. 
An' hunt him down, o'er right an' ruth, 

To ruin streight. 

All hail, religion ! maid divine ! 
Pardon a muse sae mean as mine, 
Who in her rough imperfect line 

Thus daurs to name thee ; 
To stigmatize false friends of thine 

Can ne'er defame thee. 

Tho' blotch't an' foul wi' niony a stain, 

An' far unworthy of thy train. 

With trembling voice I tune mv strain 

To join with those, ' 
Who boldly dare thy cause maintain 

In spite of foes : 

la spite o' crowds, in spite o' mobs, 
In spite of undermining jobs. 
In spite o' dark banditti stabs 

At worth an' merit, 
By scoundrels, even wi' holy robes, 

Eut hellish spirit. 

O Ayr, my dear, my native ground, 
Within thy presbyterial bound 
A candid lib'ral band is found 

Of public teachers. 
As men, as Christians too renown'd 

An' manly preachers. 

Sir, in that circle you are nam'd ; 
Sir, in that circle you are fam'd ; 
An' some, by whom your doctrine's blam'd, 

(Which gits you hon(jr) 
Even Sir, by them your heart's esteeia'cK 

An' winning-manner. 

Pardon this freedom I have ta'eu, 
An' if impertinent I've bscn, 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Impute it not, good Sir, in ane 

Wbase heart ne'er wrang'd yci 
But to liis utmost would befriend 

Ought that belang'd ye. 



TO GAVIN HAMILTON, Esq. 

3iauchline. 

(recommending a boy). 

Mosgaville, May S, 1786. 
I HOLD it. Sir, my bounden duty 
To warn you "how that Waster Tootie, 

Alias, Laird M'Gaun,* 
Was here to hire yon lad away 
'Bout whom ye spak the tither day, 

An' wad hae don't aflf ban' > 
But lest he learn the callan tricks, 

As faith 1 muckle doubt him. 
Like scrapin' out auld Crummie's nicks. 
An' tellin' lies about them ; 
As lieve then I'd have then, 

Your clerkship he should sair, 
If sae be, ye may be 
Not fitted otherwhere. 

Altho' I say't, he's gleg enough. 

An' 'bout a house that's rude an' rough, 

The boy might learn to swear • 
But then wi' 7/ou, he'll be sae taught, 
An' get sic fair example straught, 

I hae na ony fear. . 
Ve'U catechise him every quirk, 

An' shore him weel wi' hell; 

An' gar him follow to the kirk 

— Ay when ye gang yoursel. 
If ye then, maun be then 

Frae hame this comin Friday, 
Then please Sir, to lea'e Sir, 
The orders wi' your lady. 

My word of honour I hae gien. 

In Paisley John's, that night at e'en, 

To meet the WarlcCs worm ; 
To try to get the twa to gree. 
An' name the airles f an' the fee. 

In legal mode an' form ; 
I ken he weel a Snick can draw. 

When simple bodies let him ; 
An' if a Devil be at a', 

In faith he's sure to get him. 
To phrase you an' praise you. 

Ye ken your Laureat scorns : 
The pray'r still, you share still, . 
Of grateful Minstrel Burns. 



>> Master Tootie then lived in Mauchline; a dealer 
m Cows. U v/as his common practice to cut the nicks 
or markings from the hems of cattle, to disguise their 
age. — He was an artful trick-contriving character: 
hence he is called a Snich-druwer, In the poet'f 
" Address to t!w Deil," lie styles that august personaea 
■.\nauld,sulcK:drawingiog\ = «• o 

t Thi Wi;V«— Earnest monejr. 



TO MR. M'ADAM, 

OF CRAIGEN-GII.LAN, 



IN ANSWER TO AN OBLIGING LETTER HE SENT 

IN THE COMMENCEMENT OF MY POETIC 

CAREER. 

Sir, o'ei- a gill I gat your card, 

I trow it made me proud ; 
See wha taks notice o' the bard ! 

I lap and cry'd fu' loud. 

Now deil-ma-care about tlieir jaw, 

The senseless, gawky million ; 
I'll cock my nose aboon them a', 

I'm roos'd by Craigen-Gillan ! 

'Twas noble, Sir ; 'twas like yoursel, 

To grant your high protectioa : 
A great man's smile, ye ken fu' well, 

Is ay a blest infection. 

Tho', by his • banes wha in a tub 

Match'd Macedonian Sandy ! 
On my ain legs thro' dirt and dub, 

I independent stand ay. — 

And when those legs to gude, warm kail, 

Wi' welcome canna bear me ; 
A lee dyke-side, a sybow-tail, 

And barley-scone shall cheer me. 

Heaven spare you lang to kiss the breath 

O' mony flow'ry simmers ! 
And bless your bonie lasses baith, 

I'm tald they're loosome kimmers ! 

And Cod bless young Duuaskin's laird. 

The blossom of our gentry ! 
And may he wear an auld man's beard, 

A credit to his country. 



1?0EMS. 81 

My goose-quill too rude 13 to tell all your (jpod- 
ness 

Bestowed on your servant, the Poet ; 
Would to God I had one like a beam of the inn, 

And then all the world. Sir, should know it I 



TO CAPTAIN RIDDEL, 

glenriddel, 
(extempore lines on returing a 

NEWSPAPEa). 

EUhland, Monday Evening. 
Your news and review, Sir, I've read through 
and through, Sir, 
With little admiring or blaming : 
The papers are barren of liome-news or foreign, 
No murders or rapes worth the naming. 

Our friends the reviewers, those cLippers and 
hewers, . 

Are judges of mortar and stone, Sir ; 
But of meet, or unmeet, in a. fabric complete, 

I'll boldly pronounce they are none, Sir. 



♦ Diogenes. 



TO TERRAUGHTY,* 

ON HIS BIRTH-DAY. 

Health to the IMaxwells' vet'ran Chief ! 
Health, ay unsour'd by care or grief: 
Inspir'd, I turn'd Fate's sybil leaf. 

This natal mom, 
I see thy life is stuff 0' prief, 

Scarce quite half worik^*' 

This day thou metes threescore eleven, 

And I can tell that bounteous Heaven ' 

(The second sight, ye ken, is given 

To ilka Poet) 
On thee a tack o' seven times seven 

Will yet bestow it. 

If envious buckies view wi' sorrow 

Thy lengthen'd days on this blest morrow. 

May desolation's lang-teeth'd harrow, 

Nine miles an hour, 
Rake them, like Sodom and Gomorrah, 

In brunstane stoure— 

But for thy friends, and they are mony, 
Baith honest men and lasses boi\)e, 
May couthie fortune, kind and cannie, 

In social glee, 
Wi' mornings blythe and e'enings funny 

Bless them and thee. 

Farweel, auld birkie ! Lord be near ye. 
And then the Deil he daurna steer ye 
Your friends ay love, your faes ay fear ye, • 

For me, shame fa' me, 
If neist my heart I dinna wear ye 

While Burns they ca' me* 



THE VOWELS 



A TALE. 



'TwAs where the birch and sounding thong 
are ply'd. 
The noisy domicile of pedant pride ; 
Where ignorance her darkening vapour throws. 
And cruelty directs the thickening blows; 



• Mr. Maxwell, of Tcrraughty, near DumfYiet 
This is the J. I*, who, at the Kxcise Courts, calJetl for 
nuriis's reports: Oicy shewed that Af, while hearted 
up to the taw, could reconcile his duty with huoMOi 
ty. ■ Altho' an Exciseman he bad a hearC 



82 



BUftNS' WORKS. 



Upon ft hme, Sir AWe tlie ^reat, 

In oil his pedagogic powers elate, 

His awful chair of state resolves to mount, 

And call the trembling vowels to account. 

First enter'd A, a grave, broad, solemn wight, 
But ah ! defoitn'd, dishonest to the sight ! 
His twisted head look'd b:!ckward on his way, 
And flagrant from the scourge he grunted at I 

Reluctant, E stalk'd in ; with piteous race 
The justling tears ran down his honest face ! 
That name, that well-worn name, aiud all his 

own. 
Pale he surrenders at the tyrant's throne i 
The pedant stifles keen the Roman sound, 
Not all his mongrel diphtlionijs can compound ; 
And next the title following close behind, 
^» to the nameless, ghastly wretch assign'd. 

The cobweb'd gothic dome resounded, Y ! 
In sullen vengeance, I, disdain'd reply : 
The pedant swung his felon cudgel round. 
And knock'd the groaninjj vow el to the ground ! 

In rueful apprehension enter'd O, 
The wailing minstrel of despairing woe ; 
Th' Inquisitor of Spain, the most expert. 
Might there have learnt new mysteries of his art: 
So grim, deform'd, with horrors enterina: U, 
Hia dearest friend and brother scarcelv knew ! 

As trembling U stood staring all aghast. 
The pedant in his left hand clutch'd him fast. 
In helpless infants' tears he dipp'd his right, 
Baptiz'd him e«, and kick'd him from his sight. 



A SKETCH. 

A LlMLK, upright, pert, tart, tripping wight. 
And still his precious self his dear delight : 
Who loves his own smart shadow in the streets, 
Better than e'er the faii-est she he meet*. 
A man of fashion too, he made his tour, 
Leam'd vive la bagatelle, et vivc V amour ,- 
So traveird monkies their grimace improve, 
Polish their grin, nay sigh for ladies' love. 
Mnch specious lore but little understood ; 
Fineering oft outshines the solid wood : 
His solid sense — by inches you must tell, 
But mete his cunning by the old Scots ell ; 
His meddling vanity, a busy fiend, 
Still making work his selfish craft must mend 



Is it some blast that gathers in the north, 
Threat'ning to nip the verdure of thy bow'r * 

Is it, sad owl, that autumn strips the shade, 
And leaves thee here, unshelter'd and forlorn .' 

Or fear that winter will thy nest invade? 
Or friendless melancholy bids thee mourn } 

Shut out, lone bird, from all the feather'd train. 
To tell thy sorrows to th' unheeding gloom 

No friend to pity when thou dost complain. 
Grief all thy thought, and solitude thy home. 

Sing on sad mourner ! I will bless thy strain. 
And pleas'd in sorrow listen to thy song : 

Sins; on sad mourner ! to the night complain. 
While the lone echo wafts thy notes along. 

Is beauty less, when down the glowing cheek 
Sad, piteous tears in native sorrows fall ? 

Less kind the heart when anguish bids it break ? 
Less happy he who lists to pity's call ? 

Ah no, sad owl ! nor is thy voice less swqet, 
That sadness tunes it, and that grief is there ; 

That spring's gay notes, unskill'd, thou canst 
repeat ; 
That sorrow bids thee to the gloom repair : 

Nor that the treble songsters of the day. 

Are quite estranged, sad bird of night ! from 
thee ; 

Nor that the thrush deserts the evening spray. 
When darkness calls thee from thy reverie.— 

From some old tow'r, thy melancholy dome, 
While the gray walls and desert solitudes 

Return each note, responsive to the gloom 
Of ivied coverts and surrounding woods ; 

There hooting ; I will list more pleas'd to tb<«^ 
Than ever lover to the nightingale ; 

Or drooping wretch, oppress'd with misery. 
Lending his ear to some condoling tale. 



TO THE OWL: 



BY JOHN M'CREODIE. 



Sad bird of night, what sorrow calls thee forth, 
. To vent thy plaints thus in the midnight 
)toar? 



EXTEMPORE, 

JN THE COURT OF SESSION. 

Tune—" Gillicrankle." 
Lord Advocate, Robert Dckoas. 

He clench'd his pamphlets in his fist, 

He quoted and he hinted, 
Till in a declamation-mist. 

His argument he tint it : 
He gaped for't, he graped for't, 

He fand it was awa, man ; 
But what his common sense came short, 

He eked out wi' law, man, 



POEMS. 



8d 



Mr. Henry Ebskinx. 

Collecti'd Hanv stood awee, 

Then open'd out his arm, raaa ; 
His lordship sat wi' ruefu' eV, 

And ev'd the gathering storm, man : 
Like wind-driv'n hail it did assail, 

Or torrents owre a lin, man ; 
The Bench sae wise lift up their eyes, 

Half-waukpu'd wi' the din, man. 



ON HEARING THAT THEUE WAS FALSEHOOD IN 
THE REV. DU. B 's VERY LOOKS. 

That there is falsehood in his looks 

I must and will deny : 
They say their master is a knave^ 

And sure they do not lie. 



ADDRESS 

TO GENERAL DUxMOURIER. 

(a parody on robin adaib). 

You're welcome to Despots, Dumourier ; 
You're welcome to Despots, Dumourier.— 
How does Daiiipiere do? 
Ave, and BiMiriionviHe too? 
M'hy did tliey not come along with you, Du- 
mourier ? 

I will fiiht France with you, Dumourier,— 
1 will fight France with you, Dumourier : — 
1 will fi'iht France with vou, 
I will take mv cliance with you ; 
By my soul I'll dance a dauce with you, Dumou- 
r-rr. 



Then let us figlit al)Out, Dumourier • 

Then let us fight about, Dumourier ; 

Then let us fight about, 

'Till freedom's spark is out. 

Then we'll be d-mned no doubt — ^Dumounet • 



EXTEMPORE EFFUSIONS. 

[The Poet paid a visit on horseback to Carlisle: whil 
he was at table his steed was turned out to graze in 
an enclosure, but wandered, probably in quest of 
better pnsture, into an acijoinini; one: it was im. 
pouDde<t by order of the !\Iayor— whose tertn of of- 
fice expired next day: — The Muse thus delivered 
herself on the ocoasion"] : 

Was e'er puir poet sae befitted, 
The maister drunk — the horse committed ; 
Puir harmless beast ! take thee nae care, 
Thou'lt be a horse, when he's nae mair— (mayor) 



TO A FRIEND, 

WITH A POUND OF SNUFF. 

O could I give thee India's wealth, 

As I this trifle send ; 
Why then the joy of both would be, 

To share it with a friend. 

But golden sands ne'er yet have graced 

The Heliconian stream ; 
Then take what gold can never buy. 

An honest Bard's esteem. 



* It is almost needless to observe that the song of 
Robin Adai , begins thus: — 

Vou're welcome to Paxtnn, Robin Adair ; 
You're welcome to I'axton, Robin Adair.— 
How does J hiiny Mackerell do ? 
Aye, and Luke Gardener too? 
Why did they not come along with you, RobrD 
Adair ? 



ESSAY 

UPON 

SCOTTISH POETRY, 

INCLUDING THE POETRY OF BURNS, 

BY DR. CURRIE 



That Burns had not the advantages of a clas- 
sical education, or of any degree of acquaintance 
with the Greek or Roman writers in their ori- 
ginal dress, has appeared in the history of his 
life. He acquired indeed some knowledge of the 
French language, but it does not appear that he 
was ever much conversant in French literature, 
nor is there any evidence of his having derived 
any of his poetical stories from that source. 
With the English classics he became well ac- 
quainted in the course of his life, and the effects 
of this acquaintance are observable ia his latter 
productions ; but the character and style of his 
poetry were formed very early, and the model 
which he followed, in as far as he can be said to 
have had one, is to be sought for in the works 
of the poets who have written in the Scottish 
dialect — iu the works of such-of them more es- 
pecially, as are familiar to the peasantry of Scot- 
land. Some observations on these may form a 
proper introduction to a more particular exami- 
na,tion of the poetry of Burns. The studies of 
the editor in this direction are indeed very re- 
cent and very imperfect. It would have been 
imprudent for him to have entered on this sub- 
ject at all, but for the kindness of Mr. Ramsay 
of Ochtertyre, whose assistance he is proud to 
acknowledge, and to whom the reader must as- 
cribe whatever is of any value in the following 
imperfect sketch of literary compositions in the 
Scottish idiom. 

It is a circumstance not a little curious, and 
which does not seem to be satisfactorily explain- 
ed, that in the thirteenth century the language 
of the two British nations, if at all different, 
differed only in dialect, the Gaelic in the one, 
like the Welch and Armoric in the other, being 
confined to the mountainous districts. • The 
English under the Edwards, and the Scots under 
Wallace and Bruce, spoke the same language. 
We may observe also, that in Scotland the his- 
tory ascends to a period nearly as remote as in 
England. Barbour and Blind Harry, James the 
First, Dunbar, Douglas, and Lindsay, who liv- 



• Historical Essays on Scottish Song, p. 20, by Mr. 
{lltson. 



ed in the fourteenth, fifteenth, and sixteenth ceii' 
turies, were coeval with the fathers of poetry in 
England ; and in the opinion of Mr. Wharton, 
not inferior to them in genius or in composition. 
Though the language of the two countries gra- 
dually deviated from each other during this pe- 
riod, yet the difference on the whole was not 
considerable ; nor perhaps greater than between 
the different dialects of the different parts of 
England in our own time. 

At the death of James the Fifth, in 134-2, the 
language of Scotland was in a flourishing condi- 
tion, wanting only writers in prose equal to those 
in verse. Two circumstimces, propitious on the 
whole, operated to prevent this. The first was 
the passion of the Scots for composition in La- 
tin ; and the second, the accession of James the 
Sixth to the English throne. It may easily be 
imagined, that if Buchanan had devoted his ad- 
mirable talents, even in part, to the cultivation of 
his native tongue, as was done by the revivers of 
letters in Italy, he would have left compositions 
in that language which might have excited other 
men of genius to have followed his example,f 
and give duration to the language itself. The 
union of the two crowns in the person of James, 
overthrew all reasonable expectation of this kind. 
That monarch, seated on the English throne, 
would no longer be addressed in the rude dia- 
lect in which the Scottish clergy had so often 
insulted his dignity. He encouraged Latin or 
English only, both of which he prided himself 
on writing with purity, though he himself never 
could acquire the English pronunciation, but 
spoke with a Scottish idiom and intonation to 
the last. Scotsmen of talents declined writing in 
their native language, which they knew was not 
acceptable to their learned and pedantic mo- 
narch ; and at a time when national prejudice 
and enmity prevaiied to a great degree, they dis- 
dained to study the nicities of the English tongue, 
though of 60 much easier acquisition than a 
dead language. Lord Stirling and Drummond 
of Hawthornden, the only Scotsmen who wrote 



t e-g. The AuthoisofQie :OeUci(t Poetarum Scoto, 
rum, 4:c. 



ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. 



85 



poetry in those times, were exceptions. They 
studied the language of England, and composed 
in it with precision and elegance, They were 
however the last of their countrymen who de- 
served to he considered as poets in that century. 
The muses of Scotland sunk iato silence, and 
did not again raise their voices for a period of 
eighty years. 

To what causes are we to attribute this ex- 
treme depression among a people comparatively 
learned, enterprising, and ingenious ? Shall 
we impute it to the fanaticism of the covenan- 
ters, or to the tyranny of the house of Stuart 
after their restoration to the throne ? Doubt- 
lees these causes operated, but they seem un- 
equal to account for the effect. In England si- 
milar distractions and oppressions took place, yet 
poetry flourished tljere in a remarkable degree. 
During this period, Cowley, and Waller, and 
Dryden sung, and Milton raised his strain of un- 
paralleled grandeur. To the causes already 
mentioned, another must be added, in account- 
ing for the torpor of Scottish literature — the 
want of a proper vehicle for men of genius to 
employ. The civil wars had frightened away 
the Latin muses, and no standard had been es- 
tablished of the Scottish tongue, which was de- 
viating still farther from the pure English idiom. 

The revival of literature in Scotlifnd may be 
dated from the establishment of the union, or 
rather from the extinction of the rebellion in 
1715. The nations being finally incorporated, 
it was cleaily seen that their tongues must in 
the end incorporate also ; or rather indeed that 
the Scottish language must degenerate into a 
provincial idiom, to be avoided by those who 
would aim at distinction in letters, or rise to 
eminence in the united legislature. 

Soon after this, a band of men of genius ap- 
peared, who studied the English classics, and 
imitated their beauties in the same manner as 
they studied the classics of Greece and Rome. 
They had admirable models of composition late- 
ly presented to them by the writers of the reign 
of Queen Anne ; particularly in the periodical 
papers published by Steele, Addison, and their 
associated friends, which circulated widely 
through Scotland, and diffused every where a 
taste for purity of style and sentiment, and for 
critical disquisition. At length, the Scottish 
writers succeeded iu English composition, and a 
ubiou was formed of the literary talents, as well 
as of the legislatures of the two nations. On 
this occasion the poets took the lead. While 
Henry Home,' Dr. Wallace, and their learned 
associates, were only laying in their intellectual 
stores, and studying to -dear themselves of their 
Scottish idioms, Thomson, Alallet, and Hamil- 
ton of Bangour, had made their appearance be- 
fore the public, and been enrolled on the hst of 
English poets. The writers in prose followed 
-—a numerous and powerful band, and poured 
their ample stores into the general stream of Bri- 



* Lord Kaimt. 



tish literature. Scotland possessed her four unw 
versities before the accession of James to th« 
English throne. Immediately before the union, 
she acquired her parochial schools. These es- 
tablishments combining happily together, made 
the elements of knowledge of easy acquisition, 
and j)resented a direct path, by which the ar- 
dent student might be carried along into the re- 
cesses of science or learning. As civil broils 
ceased, and faction and prejudice gradually died 
away, a wider field was opened to literary ambi- 
tion, and the influence of the Scottish institu- 
tions for instruction, on the productions of the 
press, became more and more apparent. 

It seems indeed probable, that the establish- 
ment of the parochial schools produced efiPects 
on the rural muse of Scotland also, which have 
not hitherto been suspected, and which, though 
less splendid in their nature, are not however 
to be regarded as trivial, whether we consider 
the happiness or the murals of the people. 

There is some reason to believe, that the 
original inhabitants of the British isles possessed 
a peculiar and interesting species of music, 
which being banished from the plains by the 
successive invasions nf the Saxons, Danes, and 
Normans, was preserved with the native race, 
in the wilds of Ireland aiid in the mountains of 
Scotland and Wales. The Irish, the Scottish, 
and the Vv'elsh music, differ indeed from each 
other, but the difference may be considered as 
in dialect only, and probably produced by the 
influence of time, like the different dialects of 
their common language. If this conjecture be 
true, the Scottish music must be more imme- 
diately of a Highland origin, and the Lowland 
tunes, though now of a character somewhat dis- 
tinct, must have descended from the mountains 
in remote ages. Whatever credit may be given 
to conjectures, evidently involved in great un« 
certainty, there can be no doubt that the Scot- 
tish peasantry have been long in possession of a 
number of songs and ballads composed in their 
native dialect, and sung to their native music. 
The subjects of these compositions were such as 
most interested the simple inhabitants, and ia 
the succession of time varied probably as the 
condition of society varied. During the sepa- 
ration and the hostility of the two nations, these 
songs and ballads, as far as our imperfect docu- 
ments enable us to judge, were chiefly warlike; 
such as the Iluntis of C/ieviot, and the Brittle 
of IJarlaw. After the union of the two crowns, 
when a certain degree of peace and tranquillity 
took place, the rural muse of Scotland breathed 
in softer accents. " In the want of real evi- 
dence respecting the history of our songs," says 
Ramsay of Ochtertyre, *' recourse may be had 
to conjecture. One would be disposed to think, 
that the most beautiful of the Scottish tunes 
were clothed with new words after the union 
of the crowns. The inhabitants of the borders, 
who had formerly been warriors from choice, 
and husbandmen from necessity, either quitted 
the country, or were transformed into real shep- 



86 



ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. 



herds, easy in tbcir circumstances, and satisfied | 
with their lot. Some sparks of that spirit of j 
chivahy for which they are ceh'brated by Frois- | 
fcart, remained sufficient to inspire elevation of 
sentiment and gallantry towards the fair sex. 
The familiarity and kindness whicli had long 
subsisted between the gentry and the peasantry, 
could not ail at once be obliterated, and this 
connexion tended to sweeten rural life. In this 
state of innocence, ease, and tranquillity of 
mind, the love of poetry and music would still 
Tfiaintain its ground, though it would naturally 
assume a form congenial to the more peaceful 
state of society. The minstrels, whose metrical 
tales used once to rouse the borderers like the 
trumpet's sound, had been, by an order of the 
Legislature ( 1J79), classed with rogues and va- 
gabonds, and attemjjted to be suppressed: Knox 
and his disciples influenced the Scottish parlia- 
ment, but contended in vain with hei' rurul 
muse. Amidst our Arcadian v.iles, probably 
on the banks of the Tweed, or some of its tri- 
butary streams, one or more original geniuses 
may have arisen who were destined to give a 
new turn to the ta;te of their c^'tnitryinL-n. 
They would see that the events ai.d |)iirsuits 
which chequer private life were the pvojier >nt)- 
jects f(ir popular poetry. Love, wliuh iiad for- 
merly held a divided svv'ay with glut) and am- 
bition, became now the master-passion of the 
soul. To portray in lively and delicate colours, 
though with a hasty hand, the hopes and fears 
that agitate the breast of the luvc-siik swain, 
or forlorn maiden, afford ample scope to the 
rural poet. Love-sougs, of which Tibullus 
himself would not have been ashamed, might 
be composed by an uneducated rustic with a 
blight tincture of letters ; or if in these songs 
the character of the rustic be spmetimes assum- 
ed, the truth of character, and the language of 
nature, are preserved. With unaffected sim- 
plicity and tenderness, topics are urged, most 
likely to soften the heart of a cruel and coy 
mistress, or to regain a fickle lover. Even in 
such as are of a melancholy cast, a ray of hope 
breaks through, and dispels the deep and settled 
gloom which characterizes the sweetest of the 
Highland luinar/s, or vocal airs. Nor are these 
songs all plaintive ; many of them are lively 
and humorous, and some appear to us coarse 
and indelicate. They seem, however, genuine 
descriptions of the manners of an energetic and 
sequestered people in their hours of mirth and 
festivity, though in their portraits some objects 
are brought into open view, which more fasti- 
dious painters would have thrown into shade. 

" As those rural poets sung for amusement, 
not for gain, their effusions seldom exceeded a 
love-song, or a ballad of satire or humour, 
which, like the words of the elder minstrels, 
were seldom committed to writing, but trea- 
sured up in the memory of their friends and 
neighbours. Neither known to the learned nor 
patronized by the great, these rustic bards lived 
snd died in obscurity ; and by a strange fatality, 



their story, and e\en their very names have 
been forgotten. When proper models for pas- 
toral songs wore produced, there would be no 
want of imitators. To succeed in this species 
of composition, soundness of understandmg and 
sensibility of heart were more requisite than 
flights of imagination or pomp of numbers. 
Great changes have certainly taken place in 
Scottish song- writing, though we cannot trace 
the steps of this chani;e ; and few of the pieces 
admired in Queen Mary's time are now to be 
discovered in modern collections. It 13 possible, 
though not jirobahle, that tlie music may have 
remained noaily the same, t!ioo;j;li tlie words to 
the tunes were entirely new-iuodelled." 

These conjectures are highly ingenious. It 
cannot, however, be piesumed, that the state of 
ease anil tranquillity described by Mr. Ramsay 
took place among the Scottish (K-asaiitry imme- 
diately on the union of the crowns, or indeed 
during the greater part of the sevciitecnth cen- 
tury. The Scottish n ition, through all ranks, 
was deeply agitated by the civil wars, and the 
religious persecutions which succeeded each 
other in that disastrous periorl ; it was not till 
aftei' the revolution in IG88, and the subsequent 
establishment of their beloved form of church 
government, that the peasantry of the Lowlanil? 
enjoyed comparative repose ; and it is since that 
period that a great number of the most admired 
Scottish songs have been produced, though the 
tunes to which they are sung, are in general of 
much greater antiquity. It is not unreasuu.dde 
to suppose, that the jieace :iud security derived 
from the Revolution, and the Union, produced 
a favourable change on the rustic poetry of 
Scotland ; and it can scarcely be doubted, that 
the institution of parish schools in iG96, by 
which a certain degree of instruction was dif- 
fused universally among the peasantry, contri- 
buted to this happy effect. 

Soon after this appeared Allan Ramsay, the 
Scottish Theocritus. He was born on the high 
mountains that divide Clydesdale and Annan- 
dale, in a small hamlet by the banks of Glengo- 
nar, a stream which descends iito the Cly<le. 
The ruins of this hamlet are still shown to the 
inquiring traveller. He was the son of a pea- 
sant, and probably received such instruction as 
his parish-school bestowed, and the poverty of 
his parents admitted. Ramsay made his ap- 
pearance in Edinburgh, in the beginning of the 
present century, in the humble character of an 
aiiprentice to a barber ; he was then fouiteen or 
fifteen years of age. By degrees he acquired 
notice for his social disposition, and his talent 
for the composition of verses in the Scottish 
idiom ; and, changing his profession for that of 
a bookseller, he became intimate with many of 
the literary, as well as the gay and fashionable 
characters of his time. * Having published a 



» " He W.1S coeval with Joseph Mitchell, and hi« 
club of arwtU wits, who, about 17' 9, i>ublishecl a very 
poor misvcUany, to wluch Dx, Young, ttie author of 



ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. 



87 



volume of poems of his own in 1721. wb.ch 
was favourably receiveJ, be undertook to "lake 
a collection of ancient Scottish poems, under the 
tide of the Ever- Green, and was alterwards 
encouraixed to present to the world a collecfon 
of Scottish sonss. " From what sources he 
procured them," savs Ramsay of Ochtertyre 
-' whether from tradition or mauuscnpt, is un- 
certain. As in the Ever- Green he made some 
rash attempts to improve on the or.gmals ot his 
ancient poems, he pvobabiy used sfll greater 
freedom With the songs and ballads. The trut 
cannot, however, he known on this point, t:ll 
manuscripts of the songs printed byh.n, more 
ancient than the present century, shall be pro- 
duced, or access be obtained to his own papers, 
if they are still in existence. To several tunes 
which either wanted words, or had words that 
were improper or imperfect, he or his Inends 
adapted verses worthy of the melodies they ac- 
companied, worthy indeed of the golden age, 
These verses were perfectly intelligible to every 
rustic, yet justly admired by persons of taste, 
who regarded them as the genuine oftspring ot 
the pastoral muse. In some respects Ramsay 
had advantages not possessed by poets wntmg 
in the Scotti^sh dialect in our days. Songs m 
the dialect of Cumberland or Lancashire, could 
never be popular, because these dialects have 
never been s,,oken by persons of iashion. But 
till the middle of the present century, every 
Scotsman, from the peer to the peasant, spoI« 
a truly Doric language. It is true the English 
moralists and poets were by this time read by 
every person of condition, and considered as the 
standards for polite composition. But, as na- 
tional preiudices were still strong, the busy, the 
learned, the gay. and the fair contmued to speak 
their native di'alect, and that with an elegance 
and poignancy of which Scotsmen of the present 
day can have'no just notion. I am old enough 
to 'have conversed with Mr. Spittal, of Leuchat, 
a scholar and a man of fashion, who survived 
all the members of the Union Parliament, iri 
which he had a seat. His pronunciation and 
phraseology differed as much from the common 
dialect, as the language of St. James s from that 
of Thames Street. Had we retained a court 
and parliament of our own, the tongues ot the 
two sister kingdoms would indeed have dittered 
like the Castilian and Portuguese ; but each 
would have its own classics, not in a single 
branch, but in the whole circle of literature. 

« Ramsay associated with the men of wit 
and fashion of his day, and several of them at- 
tempted to write poetrv in his manner. Per- 
sons too idle or too dissipated to think of com- 
positions that required much exertion, succeeded 
very happily in making tender sonnets to ta- 
vouVite tiinc's in compliment to their mistresses, 
and transforming themselves into impassioned 



diepherds. caught thelanguagcof the characters 
thel assumed. Thus, about the year 1731. 
Robert Crawfurd of Auchinames wrote the 
modern song of r,fe«^5ide,* whidr has beea 
so much admired. In 1743, Sir Gilbert Elliot 
the first of our lawyers who both spoke and 
wrote English elegantly, composed, in the cha- 
racter of a love-sick swain, a beautiful song, 
besinaintx. M,j sheep I neglected I h,t my 
,heev-hook, on the marriage ot his mistress. 
Misi Forbes, with Ronald Crawfurd. And 
about twelve years aftenvards, the sister of Sir 
Gilbert wrote' tlie ancient words to the tune of 
the Flowers of the Forest,\ and supposed to al- 
lu.ie to the battle uf Flowden. In spite of the 
double rhvnie, it is a sweet, and though m some 
' rts allegorical, a natural expression of national 
siirro\\- The more modern Avords to the same 
tuue, beijinuing, I have seen the smiling df for- 
tune lequiling, were written long before by Mrs. 
Cockburn, a woman of great wit, who outlived 
ail the first group of literati of the present cen- 
tm V, all of whom were very fond of her. I was 
delii-hted with her company, thougu when I saw 
her,^ she was very old. -Much did she know 

that is now lost." c o »*• i, 

lu addition to these instances of JscottisU 
songs, produced in the earlier part of the pre- 
sent century, may be mentioned the ba ad of 
Hardiknnfe, by Lady Wardlaw ; the ballad ot 
William and Margaret ; and the song entitled 
the Birhs oflnvermay, by Mallet; the love- 
song, beginiling, For ever. Fortune, wilt thou 
prove, produced by the youthful muse of 1 horn- 
sou ; and the exquisite pathetic ballad, the Braes 
of Yarrow, by Hamilton of Bangour. On the 
revival of letters in Scotland, subsequent to the 
Union, a very general taste seems to liave pre- 
vailed for the national songs and music. 1-or 
many years," says Mr. Ramsay, " the singing 
of songs was the great delight of the higher and 
middle order of the people, as well as of the 
peasantry ; and though a taste for Italian music 
has interfered with this amusement, it is still 
very prevalent. Between forty and fifty years 
aro, the common people were not only exceed- 
iu.rly fond of songs and ballads, but of metrical 
history. Often have I, in my cheerful morn of 
youth', listened to them with delight, when 
reading or reciting the exploits of Wallace and 
Bruce against the Southrons. Lo^** «*'^^ 
was woiit to call Blind Harry their B'ble, He 
being tiieii- great favairite next the Scriptures. 
When, therefore, one in the vaie of life felt the 

first emotion of ,e.r.us '"^ -""''V f uoetrv 
sui rjmern. But though the seed, of poetry 
were scattered with a plc.nful hand among the 
Scottish peasantry, the i-r.duct was probably 
like that of pear^ and app!es-of a thousand 
that sprung up, nine hundred and fifty are so 
bad as to 'set the teeth on edge; forty-five or 



„ 1 * Befinnin ", n'hat beauties does Flora disclosi . 

V v,>fi/ Thowhts, prefixed a copy of verses." 1 Beginnin,, ^ ^ — ^^^^^ ^ ^.,^.^^^ ^^ ^ g„^ 
he ^^'^^ oj„ Je"^"V7„f; Mr Ranisauof Ochlcrtyre 
to tA€ EdUoT- 



Thowhts, prefixed a copy of verses." I 
famerfroin Mr R«m«y o/ Ocktcriyre | 



; Befinnini; / Aape heard a lilting at <mr e«.w 
milfiins 



68 



ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. 



more are passable and useful ; and the rest of 
an exquisite flavour. Allan Ramsay and Burns 
are wildings of this last description. They had 
the example of the elder Scottish poets ; they 
were not without the aid of the best English 
writers ; and, what was of still more import- 
ance, they were no strangers to the book of na- 
tuie, and to the book of God." 

From this general view, it is apparent that 
Allan Ramsay may be considered as in a great 
measure the reviver of the rural poetry of his 
country. His collection of ancient Scottish 
poems under the name of The Ever-green, his 
collection of Scottish Bongs, and his own poems, 
the principal of which is the Gentle Shepherd, 
have been universally read among the peasantry 
of his country, and have in some degree super- 
seded the adventures of Bruce and Wallace, as 
recorded by Barbour and Blind Harry. Burns 
was well acquainted with all of these. He had 
also before him the poems of Fergusson in the 
Scottish dialect, which have been produced in 
our own times, and of which it will be neces- 
sary to give a short account, 

Fergusson was born of parents who had it in 
their power to procure him a liberal education, 
a circumstance, however, which in Scotland, 
implies no very high rank in society. From a 
well written and app \reiitly authentic account 
of his life, we learn that he spent six years at 
the schools of Edinburgh and Dundee, and se- 
veral years at the universities of Edinburgh and 
St. Andrew's. It appears that he was at one 
time destined for the Scottish church ; but as 
he advanced towards manhood, he renounced 
that intention, and at Edinburgh entered the 
office of an attorney. Fergusson had sensibility 
of mind, a warm and generous heart, and ta- 
lents for society, of the most attractive kind. 
To such a man no situation could be more dan- 
gerous than that in which he was placed. The 
excesses into which he was led, impaired his 
feeble constitution, and he sunk under them in 
the month of October, 1774, in his 23d or 24-th 
year. Burns was not acquainted with the 
poems of this youthful genius when he himself 
began to write poetry ; and when he first saw 
them, he had renounced the mtises. But while 
he resided in the town of Irvine, meeting with 
Fergiisson's Scottish Poems, he informs us that 
he; " strung his lyre anew with emulating vi- 
gour," Touched by the sympathy originating 
in kindred genius, and in the forebodings of si- 
milar fortune. Burns regarded Fergusson with 
a partial and an affectionate admiration. Over 
his grave he erected a monument, as has al- 
ready been mentioned ; and his poems he has 
in several instances made the subjects of his 
imitation. 

From this account of the Scottish poems 
known to Burns, those who are acquainted 
with them will see they are chiefly humorous 
or pathetic ; and under one or other of these 
descriptions most of his own poems will class. 
Let lu compare him with his predecessors un- 



der each of these points of view, and close ouf 
examination with a few general observations. 

It has frequently been observed, that Scot- 
land has produced, comparatively speaking, few 
writers who have excelled in humour. But this 
observation is true only when applied to those 
who have continued to reside in their own coun- 
try, and have confined themselves to composi- 
tion in pure English ; and in these circum- 
stances it admits of an easy explanation. The 
Scottish poets, who have written in the dialect 
of Scotland, have been at all times remarkable 
for dwelling on subjects of humour, in which 
indeed some of them have excelled. It would 
be easy to show, that the dialect of Scotland 
having become provincial, is now scarcely suit- 
ed to the more elevated kinds of poetry. It we 
may believe that the poem of Christis Kirk of 
the Grene was written by James the First of 
Scotland, this accomplished monarch, who had 
received an English education under Henry the 
Fourth, and who bore arms under his gallant 
successor, gave the model on which the greater 
part of the humorous productions of the rustic 
muse of Scotland had been formed. Christis 
Kirk of the Grene was reprinted by Ramsay, 
somewhat modernized in the orthography, and 
two cantos were added by him, in which he at- 
tempts to carry on the design, Hence the poem 
of King James is usually printed in Ramsay's 
works. The royal bard describes, in the first 
canto, a rustic dance, and afterwards a conten- 
tion in archery, ending in an affray. Ramsay 
relates the restoration of concord, and the re- 
newal of the rural sports with the humours of a 
country wedding. Though each of the poets 
describes the m'anners of his respective age, yet 
in the whole piece there is a very sufficient uni- 
formity ; a striking proof of the identity of cha- 
racter in the Scottish peasantry at the two pe- 
riods, distant from each other three hundted 
years. It is an honourable distinction to this 
body of men, that their character and manners, 
very little embellished, have been found to be 
susceptible of an amusing and interesting spe- 
cies of poetry ; and it must appear not a litfJe 
curious, that the single natioti of modern Eu- 
rope which possesses an original poetry, should 
have received the model, followed by their rus- 
tic bards, from the monarch on the throne. 

The two additional cantos to Christis Kirk 
nf the Grene, written by Ramsay, though ob- 
jectionable in point of delicacy, are among the 
happiest of his productions. His chief excel- 
lence indeed, lay in the description of rural cha- 
racters, incidents, and scenery ; for he did not 
possess any very high powers either of imagina- 
tion or of understanding. He was well ac- 
quainted with the peasantry of Scotland, their 
lives and opinions. The subject was in a great 
measure new ; his talents were equal to the 
subject, and he has shown that it may be hap- 
pily adapted to pastoral poetry. In his Gentle 
Shepherd, the characters are delineations from 
nature, the descriptive parts are in the genuine 



ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. 



89 



style of beautiftil simplicity, the passions and 
a&ctions of rural life are finely portrayed, and 
the heart is pleasingly interested in the happi- 
ness that is bestowed on innocence and virtue. 
Throughout the whole there is an air of reality 
which the most careless reader cannot but per- 
ceive ; and in fact no poem ever perhaps ac- 
quired so high a reputation, in which truth re- 
ceived so little embellishment from the imagina- 
tion. In his pastoral songs, and his rural tales, 
Ramsay appears to less advantage, indeed, but 
still with considerable atti-action. The story of 
the Monk and the Miller's Wife, though some- 
what licentious, may rank with the happiest 
productions of Prior or La Fontaine. But when 
he attempts subjects from higher life, and aims 
at pure English composition, he is feeble and 
uninteresting, and seldom even reaches medio- 
crity. Neither are his familiar epistles and 
elegies in the Scottish dialect entitled to much 
approbation. Though Fergusson had higher 
powers of imagination than Ramsay, his genius 
was not of the highest order ; nor did his learn- 
ing, which was considerable, improve his ge- 
nius. His poems written in pure English, in 
which he often follows classical models, though 
superior to the English poems of Ramsay, sel- 
dom rise above mediocrity ; but in those com- 
posed in the Scottish dialect he is often very 
successful. He was, in general, however, less 
happy than Ramsay in the subjects of his muse. 
As he spent the greater part of his life in Edin- 
burgh, and wrote for his amusement in the in- 
tervals of business or dissipation, his Scottish 
poems are chiefly founded on the incidents of a 
town life, which, though they are not suscepti- 
ble of humour, do not admit of those delinea- 
tions of scenery and manners, which vivify the 
rural poetry of Ramsay, and which so agreeably 
amuse the fancy and interest the heart. The 
town eclogues of Fergusson, if we may so deno- 
minate them, are however faithful to nature, 
and often distinguished by a very happy vein of 
humour. His poems entitled The Daft Days, 
The Kiny's Birth-day in Edinburgh, Leith 
Races, and The Hallow Fair, will justify this 
character. In these, particularly in the last, he 
imitated Christis Kirk of the Gretie, as Ram- 
say had done before him. His Address to the 
Tron-kirk Bell is an exquisite piece of humour, 
which Burns has scarcely excelled. In appre- 
ciating the genius of Fergusson, it ought to be 
recollected, that his poems are the careless effu- 
sions of an irregular though amiable young man, 
who wrote fur the periodical papers of the day, 
and who died in early youth. Had his life been 
prolonged under happiur circumstances of for- 
tune, he would probably have risen to much 
higher reputation. He. might have excelled in 
rural poetry, for though his professed pastorals 
on the established Sicilian model, are stale and 
uninteresting. The Farmer's Ingle,* which 



• The farmer's flre-sidc. 
32 



may be considered as a Scottish pastoral, is tie 
happiest of all his productions, and certainly 
was the archetype of the Colter's Saturday 
Night. Fergusson, and more especially Burns, 
have shown, that the character and manners of 
the peasantry of Scotland, of the present times, 
are as well adapted to poetry, as in the days of 
Ramsay, or of the author of Christis Kirk of 
the Grene. 

The humour of Burns is of a richer vein than 
that of Ramsay or Fergusson, both of whom, as 
he himself informs us, he had " frequently in his 
eye, but rather with a view to kindle at their 
flame, than to servile imitation." His descrip- 
tive powers, whether the objects on which they 
are employed be comic or serious, animate, or 
inanimate, are of the highest order. — A supe- 
riority of this kind is essential to every species 
of poetical excellence. In one of his earlier 
poems his plan seems to be to inculcate a lesson 
of contentment on the lower classes of society, 
by showing that their superiors are neither 
much better nor happier than themselves ; and 
this he chooses to execute in the form of a dia- 
logue between two dogs. He introduces this 
dialogue by an account of the persons and cha- 
racters of the speakers. The first, whom he 
has named Ccesar, is a dog of condition :— . 

" His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar. 
Showed him the gentleman and scholar." 

High-bred though he is, he is however full of 
condescension : 

" At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, 
Nae tawted tyke, tho' e'er sae duddie. 
But he wad stan't, as glad to see him, 
jin' stroan't on stanes an' hillocks wC him." 

The other, Luath, is a " plougman'S-colliei* 
but a cur of a good heart and a sound under- 
standing. 

" His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face, 
Aye gat him friends in ilka place ; 
His breast was white, his towsie back 
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black ; 
His gawcie tail, wi' upward curl, 
Hung o'er his hurdles wi' a swirj." 

Never were twa dogs so exquisitely delineat- 
ed. Their gambols, before they sit down to 
moralize, are described with an equal degree of 
happiness ; and through the whole dialogue, 
the character, as well as the diFerent condition 
of the two speakers, is kept in view. The 
speech of Luath, in which he enumerates the 
comforts of the poor, gives the following ac- 
couiit of their merriment on the first day of the 
year : 

" That merry day the year begins, 
They bar the door on frosty winds. 



90 



ESSAY UPON SCOTTiSIi POETRY. 



The nappy reeks wl' mantling ream, 
And sheds a hcarc-inspiiia' s>U'am ; 
The luntin jiipe, and snccsliin' laiU, 
Are handed round wi' ligM guid-will ; 
The canty auld folks crackin' crouse, 
The young anes rantiu' thro' the house — 
My heart '^has been sae fain to bce theni, 
That I for joy hac harkit id' tltem" 



Of uU the animals who have moralized on Im- , 
man aflfairs since the days of /ijlsop, the dog 
seems best entitled to this privilege, as well trom 
his superior sagacitv, as from his bemg, more ] 
than any other, the friend and absociate of man. | 
The dogs of Burns, excepting in their talent for 
moralizmg, are downright dogs. The " t-.va 
dogs" are constantly kept before our eyes, and 
the contrast between their form and character 
as dogs, and the sagacity of their conversation, 
heightens the humour, and deepens the impres- 
sion of the poet's satire. Though in this poem 
the chief excellence I'.iay be considered as hu- 
mour, yet great talents are displayed in its com- 
position : the liappiest powers of description 
and the deepest insight into the human heart. 
It is seldom, however, that the humour of Burns 
appears in so simple a form. The liveliness of 
his sensibiiitv fiefpiently impels him to intro- 
duce into subjects of humour, emotions of ten- 
derness or of pity ; and, where occasion admits, 
he is sometimes carried on to esert the higher 
pov.'er9 of imagination. In such instances he 
leaves the society of Ramsay and of Fergus50n, 
and associates himself with the masters of Eng- 
lish poetry, whose language he frequently as- 
sumes. 

Of the union of tenderness and humour, ex- 
amples may be found in The Death and Dyhiy 
Words of poor Mailie, in The auld Farmer's 
New- Year's Morning Salutation to his Mare 
Maggie, and in many other of his poems. The 
praise of whisky is a favourite subject with 
Burns. To this he dedicates his poem of 
Scotch Drinh. After mentioning its cheering 
influence in a variety of situations, he describes, 
with singular liveliness and power of fancy, its 
stimulating effects on the blacksmith working 
at his forge : 

" Nae mercy, then, fur aim or steel ; 
The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel, 
Brings hard owre-hip, wi' sturdy wheel. 

The strong fore-hammer, 
Till block fn' studdie ring and reel 

Wi' dinsonie clamour." 

Again, however, he sinks into humour, and 
concludes the poem with the following most 
laughable, but most irreverent apostrophe ; 

" Scotland, mv auld, respected mither ! 
Though wh'yles ye moistify your leather, 
'Till where you sit, on craps o' heather, 
Ye tine your dam ; 



Freedom and Whisky gang thegither, 
Tak' afF your dram !" 

Of this union of humour, with the higher 
powers of imagination, instances may be found 
in the poem entitled Death and Dr. Hornbook, 
and in almost every stanza of the Address to 
the Dtil, one of the happiest of his productions. 
After reproaching this teirible being with aU 
his "doings" and misdeeds, in the course of 
which he passes through a series of Scottish 
superstitions, and ri>es at times into a high 
straiu of poetry ; he cuucludes this address, de- 
jliveied in a tone of great familiarity, not alto- 
gether unmixed with apprehension, m the fol- 
lowing words : 



'< But, fare ye wee!, auld Nickie-ben ! 
O \vo.d ye tak a thought an' men' ! 
Ye aiblins might — I dinna keu — 

Still ha'e a stake — 
I'm v.'ae to think upo' yon den 

Ev'n for your sake ! 

Humour and tenderness are here so happily 
intermixed, that it is impossible to say which 
preponderates. 

Feignsson wrote a dialogue between the 
Causeway iind the Plainstme.s* of Edinburgh. 
This probably suggested to Burns his dialogue 
between the Old aud Nbnv Bridge over the river 
Ayr. The nature of such subjects requires that 
they shall be treated humorously, and Fergussoa 
has attempted nothing beyond this. Though 
the Causeway and the Plainstones talk to- 
gether, no attempt is made to personify the 
speaker-. 

In the dialogue between the Brigs of Ayr, 
the poet, " press'd by care," or " inspired by 
whim," had left his bed in the town of Ayr, 
and wandered out alone in the darkness and so- 
litude of a winter night, to the mouth of the 
river, where the stillness was interrupted only 
by the rushing sound of the influx of the tide. 
]t was after midnight. The Dungeon-clock 
had struck two, and the sound had been re- 
peated by Wallace- Tower. All else was hushed. 
The moon shone brightly, and 

" The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam, 
Crept, gently-crusting, o'er theglitteringstream." 

In this situation, the listening bard hears the 
" clanging sugh" of wings moving through the 
air, and speedily he perceives two beings, reared, 
the one ou the Old, the other on the New Bridge, 
whose form and attire he describes, aud whose 
conveisatioa with each other he rehearses. 
These genii enter inta a comparison of the re- 
spective edifices over which they preside, and af- 
terwards, as is usual between the old and young, 
compare modern characters and manners with 
those of past times. They differ, as may be ex- 



• i'toin* ■<>«<■ .--iJe-pavemeut. 



ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH. POETRY. 



91 



pected, and taunt and scold each other in broad 
Scotch. This conversation, which is certainly 
humorous, mav be considered as a proper busi- 
ness of the poem. As the debate runs high, and 
threatens serious consequences, all at once it is 
interrupted by a new scene of wonders : 

all before their sij^ht 



A fairy train appear'd in order bright ; 
Adown the glitterina; stream they featly danced ; 
Bright to the moon their various dresses glanced ; 
They footed o'er the wat'ry glass so neat, 
The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet ; 
While arts of minstrelsy among them rung, 
And soul-ennobled Bards heroic ditties sung." 



•' The Genius of the Stream in front appears, 
A venerable chief, advanced in years ; 
His hoary head with water-lilies crown'd. 
His manly leg with garter tangle bound." 

Next follow a numb?r of other allegorical be- 
ings, among v.liom are the four seasons, Rural 
Joy, Plenty, Hospitality, and Courage. 

" Benevolence, with mild benignant air, 
A female form, came from the tuw'is of Stair : 
Learning and Worth in equal measures trode, 
From simple Catruie, their Umg-loved abode : 
Last, white-robed Peace, crown'd with a hazel 

wreath, 
To rustic Agriculture did bequeath 
The broken iron instrument of Death ; 
At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their kin- 
dling wrath." 

This poem, irregular and imperfect as it is, 
displays various and jjowerful talents, and may 
serve to illustrate the senius of Burns. In par- 
ticular, it affords a striking instance of his being 
carried beyond his original purpose by the pow- 
ers of imagination. 

In Fergusson's poem, the T'lainstnnes and 
Causeway contrast the characters of the differ- 
ent persons who walked upon them. Burns 
probably conceived, that, by a dialogue between 
the Old and New Bridge, he might form a hu- 
morous contrast between aucieut and modern 
manners in the town of Avr. Such a dialogue 
could only be supposed to pass in the stillness of 
night ; and this led our ))oct iuto a description 
of a midnight scene, which excited in a high 
degree the powers of his imagination. During 
the whole dialogue the scenery is present to his 
fancy, and at length it suggests to him a fairy 
dance of aerial beings, under the beams of the 
moon, by which the wrath of the Genii of the 
Srigs of Ayr is appeased. 

Incongruous as the different parts of this poem 
are, it is not an incongruity that displeases ; and 
we have only to regret that the poet did not be- 
stow a little pains in making the figures more 
correct, and in smoothing the versification. 

^he epistles of Burns, in which may be in- 



cluded his Dedication to G. H. Esq. discover, 
like his other writings, the powers of a superior 
understanding. They display deep insight into 
human nature, a gay and happy strain of reflec- 
tion, great independence of sentiment, and ge- 
nerosity of heart. The Halloween of Burns is 
free from every oVyection. It is interesting not 
merely from its humorous description of manners, 
but as it records the spells and charms used on 
the celebration of a festival, now, even in Scot- 
land, falling into neglect, but which was once 
observed over the greater part of Britain and 
Ireland. These charms are su|)posed to afford 
an insight into futurity, especially on the sub- 
ject of marriage, the most interesting event of 
rurul life. In the Halloween, a female, in per- 
forming one of the S|)eils, luis occasion to go out 
by moonlight to dip her shift-sleeve into a stream 
running tmuardx the South. It was not ne- 
cessary for Burns to give a description of thia 
stream. But it v.'as the character of his ardent 
mind to pour forth not merely what the occasion 
required, but what it admitted ; and the temp- 
tation to describe so beautiful a natural object 
by moonlight, was not to be resisted — 

" Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays, 
As through the glen it wimpl't ; 
Wliyles round the rocky scar it strays ; 

Whylcs in a wiel it dimpl't ; 
Whyles glitter'd to the nightly rays, 

Wi' bickering dancing dazzle ; 
Whyles cookit underneath the braes, 
Beneath the spreading hazel. 

Unseen that night. 

Those who understand the Scottish dialect 
will allow this to be one of the finest instances 
of description which the records of poetry afford. 

In pastoral, or, to speak more correctly, in 
rural poetry of a serious nature. Burns excelled 
equally as in that of a humorous kind, and, using 
iess of the Scottish dialect in his serious poems, 
he becomes more generally intelligible. It is dif- 
ficult to decide whether the Address to a Mouse 
whose nest was turned up ivith the plough, should 
be considered as serious or comic. Be this as 
it may, the poem is one of the happiest and 
most finished of his jiroductions. If we smile 
at the " bickering brattle" of this little flying 
animal, it is a smile of tenderness and pity. 
The descriptive part is admirable : the moral re- 
flections beautiful, and arising directly out of the 
occasion ; and in the conclusion there is a deep 
melancholy, a sentiment of doubt and dread, 
that arises to the sublime. The Address to a 
3Iountain Daisy, turned down with the plough, 
is a pocui of the same nature, though somewhat 
inferior in point of originality, as well as in the 
interest produced. To extract out of incidents 
so common, and seemingly so trivial as these, 
so fine a train of sentiment and imagery, is the 
surest proof, as well as the most brilliant triumph, 
of original genius. The Vision, in two cantos, 
from wliich a beautiful extract is taken by Mr 



92 



ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. 



Mackenzie, in the 97th number of the Lounger, 
is a poem of great and various excellence. The 
opening, in which the poet describes his own 
state of mind, retiring in the evening, wearied, 
from the labours of the day, to moralize on his 
conduct and prospects, is truly intCEcsting. The 
chamber, if wc may so term it, in which he sits 
down to muse, is an exquisite painting : — 

** There, lanely, by the ingle cheek, 
I sat and eyed the spewing reek, 
That fiU'd wi' hoast-provoking smeek 

That auld clay biggin ; 
An' heard the restless rattons squeak 

About the riggin. " 

To reconcile to our imagination the entrance 
of an aerial being into a mansion of this kind, 
required the powers of Burns — he, however, suc- 
ceeds. Coila enters, and her countenance, atti- 
tude, and dress, unlike those of other spiritual 
beings, are distinctly portrayed. To the painting 
on her mantle, on which is depicted the most 
striking scenery, as well as the most distinguished 
characters, of his native country, some exceptions 
may be made. The mantle of Coila, like the cup 
of Thyrsis,* and the shield of Achilles, is too 
much crowded with figures, and some of the ob- 
jects represented upon it are scarcely admissible, 
according to the principles of design. The ge- 
nerous temperament of Burns led him into these 
exuberances. In his second edition he enlarged 
the number of figures originally introduced, that 
he might include objects to which he was at- 
tached by sentiments of affection, gratitude, or 
patriotism. The second Duan, or canto of this 
poem, in which Coila describes her own nature 
and occupations, particularly her superintendence 
of his infant genius, and in which she reconciles 
him to the character of a bard, is an elevated and 
solemn strain of poetry, ranking in all respects, 
excepting the harmony of numbers, with the 
higher productions of the English muse. The 
concluding atanza, compared with that already 
quoted, will show to what a height Burns rises 
in this poem, from the point at which he set 
out : — 

" And wear thou this — she solemn said. 
And bound the holly round my head ; 
The polish'd leaves, and berries red. 

Did rustling play ; 
And, like a passing thought, she fled 

In light away." 

In various poems Burns has exhibited the pic- 
ture of a mind under the deep impressions of 
real sorrow. The Lament, the Ode to Ruin, 
Despondency, and Winter, a Dirge, are of this 
character. In the first of these poems the eighth 
Btanza, which describes a sleepless night from 
anguish of mind, is particularly striking. Burns 
often indulged in those melancholy views of the 



• See the first IdyUium of Theocritus. 



nature and condition of man, which are so eon*' 
genial to the temperament of sensibility. Tbi 
poem entitled Man was made to Mourn, affords 
an instance of this kind, and The Winter Night 
is of the same description. The last is highly 
characteristic, both of the temper of mind, and 
of the condition of Burns. It begins with a 
description of a dreadful storm on a night in 
winter. The poet represents himself as lying in 
bed, and listening to its howling. la this iitn- 
ation, he naturally turns his thoughts to the 
ourie • Cattle, and the silly f Sheep, exposed to 
all the violence of the tempest. Having lament- 
ed their fate, he proceeds in the following :— 

" Ilk happing bird — wee helpless thing ! 
That in the merry months o' spring, 
Delighted me to hear thee sing. 

What comes o' thee ? 
Whare wilt thou cow'r thy chittering wing, 
■ An' close thy e'e ? 

Other reflections of the same nature occur to 
his mind ; and as the midnight moon, " muf- 
fled with clouds," casts her dreary light on hi^ 
window, thoughts of a darker and more me- 
lancholy nature crowd upon him. In this state 
of mind, he hears a voice pouring through the 
gloom, a solenm and plaintive strain of reflec- 
tion. The mourner com])ares the fury of the 
elements with that or" man to his brother man, 
and finds the former light in the balance. 

" See stern Oppression's iron grip, 

Or mad Ambition's gory hand. 
Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip, 

Woe, want, and murder, o'er the land." 

He pursues this train of reflection through a 
variety of particulars, in the course of which he 
introduces the following animated apostrophe :— ^ 

" O ye ! who sunk in beds of down, 

Feel not a want but what yourselves create, 

Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate. 

Whom friends and fortune quite disown ! 
Ill-satisfy'd keen Natun.-'s clam'rous call, 

Stretch'd on his straw he lays him down to 
sleep, 
While thro' the ragged roof and chinky wall, 

Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifty heap." 

The strain of sentiment which runs through 
this poem is noble, though the execution is un- 
equal, and the versification is defective. 

Among the serious poems of Burns, The 
Cotter's Saturday Night is perhaps entitled to 
the first rank. The I^ui-mer's Ingle of Fergus ■ 
son evidently suggested the plan of this poem, 
as has been already mentioned ; but after the 
plan was formed, Burns trusted entirely to his 



» 0«ri>, out-lying. Ourti; Ca«/e, Cattle that are un. 
housed all winter. 

t Silly is in this, as in other places, a term of com 
passion and endearment. 



ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. 



6^ 



own powers for the execution. Fergusson's 
poem is certainly very beautiful. It has all the 
charms which depend on rural characters and 
manners happily portrayed, and exhibited under 
circumstances highly grateful to the imagination 
The Farmer's Ingle begins with describing the 
return of evening. The toils of the day are over, 
and the farmer retires to his comfortable fire- 
side. The reception which he and his men-ser 
vants receive from the careful house-wife, is 
pleasingly described. After their supper is over, 
they begin to talk on the rural events of the day. 

" 'Bout kirk and market eke their tales gae on, 
How Jock woo'd Jenny here to be his bride ; 

And there how Marion for a bastard son. 
Upon the cutty-^tool was forced to ride, 

The waefu' scauld o' our Mess John to bide. 

The " Guidarae" is next introduced as forming 
a circle round the fire, in the midst of her grand- 
children, and while she spins from the rock, 
and the spindle plays on htr " russet lap," she 
is relating to the young ones tales of witches and 
ghosts. The poet exclaims, 

" mock na this my friends ! but rather mourn, 
Ye in life's brawest spring wi' reason clear, 

Wi' eild oar idle fancies a' return. 

And dim our dolefu' days wi' bairnly fear ; 

The mind's aye cradl'd when the ^rai-e is near." 

In the meantime the farmer, wearied with the 
fatigues of the day, stretches himself at length 
on the settle, a sort of rustic couch, which ex- 
tends on one side of the fire, and the cat and 
house-dog leap. upon it to receive his caresses. 
Here, resting at his ease, he gives his directions 
to his men-servants for the succeeding day. 
The house-wife follows his example, and gives 
her orders to the maidens. By degrees the oil 
jn the cruise begins to fail ; the fire runs low ; 
sleep steals on his rustic group ; and they move 
oflF to enjoy their peaceful slumbers. The poet 
concludes by bestowing his blessing on the 
" husbandman and all his tribe." 

This is an original and truly interesting pas- 
toral. It possesses every thing required in this 
species of composition. We might have perhaps 
said, every thing that it admits, had not Burns 
written his Cotter's Saturday Night. 

The cottager returning from his labours, has 
no servants to accompany him, to partake of his 
fare, or to receive his instructions. The circle 
which he joins, is composed of his wife and chil- 
dren only ; and if it admits of less variety, it af- 
fords an opportunity for representing scenes that 
more strongly interest the affections. The 
younger children running to meet him, and 
clambering round his knee ; the elder, returning 
fi-om their weekly labours with the neighbouring 
farmers, dutifully depositing their little gains 
with their parent^ and receiving theit father's 
blessing and instructions ; the incidents of the 
courtship of haay, their eldest daughter, « wo- 



man grown," are circumstances of the most in- 
teresting kind, which are most happily delineat- 
ed ; and after their frugal supper, the represen- 
tation of these humbler cottagers forming a wider 
circle round their hearth, and uniting in the 
worship of God, is a picture the most deeply af- 
fecting of any which the rural muse has ever 
presented to tKc view. Burns was admirably 
adapted to this delineation. Like all men of 
genius he was of the temperament of devotion, 
and the powers of memory co-operated in this 
instance with the sensibility of his heart, and 
the fervour of his imagination. The Cotter's 
Saturday Night is tender and moral, it is so- 
lenm and devotional, and rises at length in a 
strain of grandeur and sublimity, which modern 
poetry has not surpassed. The noble sentiments 
of patriotism with which it concludes, corres- 
pond with the rest of the poem. In no age or 
country have the pastoral muses breathed such 
elevated accents, if the Messiah of Pope be ex- 
cepted, which is indeed a pastoral in form only. 
It is to be regretted that Burns did not employ 
his genius on other subjects of the same nature, 
which the manners and customs of the Scottish 
p?asantry would have amply supplied. Such 
poetry is not to be estimated by the degree of 
pleasure which it bestows ; it sinks deeply into 
the heart, and is calculated, far beyond any other 
human means, for giving permanence to the 
scenes and the characters it so exquisitely de- 
sciibes. 

Before we conclude, it will be proper to of- 
fer a few observations on the lyric productions 
of Barns. His compositions of this kind are 
chiefly songs, generally in the Scottish dialect, 
and always after the model of the Scottish snogs, 
on the general character and moral influence of 
which, some observations have already been of- 
fered. We may hazard a few more particular 
remarks. 

Of the historic or heroic ballads of Scotland 
it is imnecessary to speak. Burns has no where 
imitated them, a circumstance to be regretted, 
since in this species of composition, from its ad- 
mitting the more terrible, as well as the softer 
graces of poetry, he was eminently qualified to 
have excelled. The Scottish songs which ser- 
ved as a model to Burns, are almost without 
exception pastoral, or rather rural. Such of 
them as arc comic, frequently treat of a rustic 
courtsliip, or a country wedding ; or they de- 
scribe the differences of opinion which arise in 
niarried life. Burns has imitated this species, 
and surpassed his models. The song beginning 
" Husband, husband, cease your strife," may be 
cited in support of this observation.* His other 



* The dialogues between husbands and their wives 
which form the subjects of the Scottish songs, are ai- 
moil all ludicrous and satirical, and in these contests 
the lady is generally victorious. From the collectioni 
of Mr. Pinkerton, we find that the comic muse of Got- 
land delighted in such representations from very early 
times, in her rude dramatic efforts, w well as in bet 
rustic songs. 



u 



ESSAY UPOM SCOTTISH POETRY. 



comic songs ave of equal merit. In tlic rural 
■ongs of Scotland, whether humorous or ten- 
der, the sentiments are given to particular cha- 
xacters, and very generally, the incidenN are 
referred to particular scenery. This last cir- 
cumstance may be considered as a disting;uisli- 
ing feature of the Scottish songs, and on it a 
considerable part of their attraction depends. 
On all occasions the sentiments, of whatever 
nature, are delivered in the character of the per- 
•on principally interested. If love be described, 
it is not as it is observed, but as it is felt ; and 
the passion is delineated under a particular as- 
pect. Neither is it the fiercer impulses of de- 
sire that are expressed, as in the celebrated ode 
of Sappho, the model of so many modern songs ; 
but those gentler emotions of tenderness and af- 
fection, which do not entirely absorb the lover ; 
but permit him to associate his emotions with 
the charms of external nature, and breathe the 
accents of purity and innocence, as well as of 
love. In these respects the love-songs of Scot- 
land are honourably distinguished from the 
most admired classical compositions of the same 
kind ; and by such associations, a variety as 
Well as liveliness, is given to the representation 
of this passion, which are not to be found in 
the poetry of Greece or Rome, or perhaps of 
any other nation. Many of the love-songs of 
Scotland describe scenes of rural courtship ; 
many may be considered as invocations from 
lovers to their mistresses. On such occasions 
a degree of interest and realily is given to the 
sentiment, by the spot destined to these happy 
interviews being particularized. The lovyrs 
perhaps meet at the Unsli ahoon Traqiiair, or 
on the Banks of Etirich ; the nymphs are in- 
voked to wander among the wilds of ItosUn or 
the Woods of Invermay. Nor is the spot mere- 
ly pointed out: the scenery is often described Here is another picture rirax<m by the pencil of N.i- 
.. ...^n „. .u I, 1 .. .. tiirc. \V see .-J siieplieidess stniidinc: by the side of a 

as well as the character, so as to rcju-esent a brook, watching hor lover, as he des?en;is the opposite 
complete picture to the fancy- 



maxim of Horace, iit pidtird j},->isis, U faithftil- 
ly observed by these rustic hards, who are guid- 
ed by the same imjjulse of nature and sensibility 
whicli influenced the i'ather of epic poetry, on 
whose example the precept of the Jlonian poet 
was perhaps founded. By this means the ima- 
gination is employed to interest the feelings. 
AVhen we do not conceive distinctly, we do not 
sympathize deeply in any human affection ; and 
we conceive nothing in the abstract. Abstrac- 
tion, so useful in morals, and so essential in 
science, must be abandoned when the heart is 
to be subdued by the powers of poetry or of 
eloquence. The bards of a ruder condition of 
society paint individual objects ; and hence, 
among other causes, the easy access they obtain 
to the heart. Generalization is the voice of 
poets, whose learning overpowers their genius; 
of poets of a refined and scientific age. 

The dramatic style which prevails so much 
in the Scottish songs, whne it contributes great- 
ly to the interest they excite, also shows that 
they have originated among a people in the ear- 
lier stages of society. Where this form of com- 
position appears in songs of a modern date, it 
indicates that they have been written after the 
ancient model.* 

The Scottish songs are of very unequal poe- 
tical merit, and this inequality often extends to 
the different parts of the same song. Those that 
are humorous, or characteristic of manners, 
have in general the merit of copying nature ; 
those that are serious are tender and often 
svv-eetly interesting, but seldom exhibit high 
powers of imagination, which indeed do not 



He skint the bum, and flew to me, 
1 met liim with goon will." 



.'opposit 

Thus the i hill He bounds lighly .-ilong; he appro eh- s nearer 

I and nearer; he leaps the brook, ami flies into her 

— ~ • — .nrms. In the recollection of these cireuniMtanccs, the 

- _ . , ... ... j surroundini' scenery becomes cudcareii to the fair 

• One or two examples mav illustrate this observa- m„urner, aad she bursts ir.tr. the tbllowin!: exclama- 
tion. A Scottish song, written .ibout a hundred vears tjon •_ 



ago, begins thus: 

" On Ettrick Banks, on a summer's night 
At Rloaminff, when the sheep drove hame 
I met my lassie, braw and tif;ht, 
Come wading barefoot a' her lane. 



My heart grew light, I ran, I flang 
My arms about her lily-neck, 

And kissed and clasped there fu' lanp — 
My words they were na mony feck." 



" O the broom, the bonnie bonnie broom. 
The broom of the Cowden-knowes ! 
I wish I were with my dear swain. 
With his pipe and his ewes;" 

Thus the individual spot of this happy interview ij 
pointed out, .and the picture is completed. 



> That the dramatic form of writing characteriies 

productions of an early, or what amounts to the same, 

of a ruJe s!a;>e of society, may be illustr.-.ted by a re- 

The lover, who is a Highlander, goes on to relate 1 ferenceto the most ancient compositions that we know 

the language he employed with his i.owland maid to |of, the Hebrew scriptures, and the v.ritiiig^ of Homer. 

win her heart, and to persuade her to fly with him to ) The form of dialogue is adopted in the old Scottish 

the Highland hills, there to share his fortune. 'J'he ballads, even in narration, whenever the situations de- 



fentiments are in themselves be.iutii'ul. But v/e feel 
them with double force, while we conceive Uiat they 
were addressed by a lover to his mistress, whom he 
met all alone on a summer's evening, by the b.anks of 
• beautiful stream, which some of us have actually 
seen, and which all of us can paint to our unaginalioii. 
Let us take another example. It is now a nymph that 
speaks. Here how she expresses herself — 

•• How blythc each mom was I to see " 
Wy iwain come o'er the hill I 



scribed become interesting. This somcimos produces 
a very striking ellect, ot v/hieh an instance may be 
given from the ballad o{ Kclnm o' Gori.ort, a composi- 
tion api'areiitly of tlie sixteenth ecutnrv. The story 
of the ballad is shor.ly this:— The Ciustle of Rhodes, 
in the abseuee of its lord, is attacked bv the robber 
Edom Gurdon. The laiiy stands on her delence, beats 
off the assailants, and wounds Gordon, who in his rage 
orders the castle to be set on &re. That his orders are 
carried into cftect, wc learn from the expostulation ot 
the lady, who i.t represented as standing on the battle. 



ESSAY TTPON SCOTTISH POETRY. 



-^5 



easily find a place In this species of composition. 
The alliance of the words of the Scottish songs 
with the music has in some instances given to 
the former a popularity, which otherwise they 
would never have obtained. 

The association of the words and the music 
of these songs with the more beautiful parts of 
the scenery of Scotland, contributes to the same 
effect. It has given them not merely popularit\', 
but permanence ; it has Imparted to the works 
of man some portion of the durability of the 
works of nature. If, from our imperfect expe- 
rience of the past, we may judge with any con- 
fidence respecting the future, songs of this de- 
scription are of all otliers the least likely to die. 
In the changes of language they may no doubt 
suffer change ; but the associated strain of sen- 
timent and of music will perhaps survive, while 
the clear stream sweeps down the vale of Yar- 
row, or the yellow broom waves on the Cowden- 
Knowes. 

The first attempts of Burns in song-writing 
were not very successful. His hibitual inatten- 
tion to the exactness of rhymes, and to the har- 
mony of numbers, arising probably from the 
models on which his versification was formed, 
were faults likely to appear to more advantage 
iix this species of composition, than in any 
other ; and we may also remark, that the 
strength of his imagination, and the exuberance 
of his sensibility, were with difficulty restrained 
within the limits of gentleness, delicacy and 
tenderness, which seem to be assigned to the 
love-songs of his nation. Burns wis better 
adapted by nature for following in such compo- 
sitions the model of the Grecian than of the 
Scottish muse. By study and practice lie how- 
ever surmounted all these obstat.-les. In his 
earlier songs there is some rnggedness ; but this 
gradually disappears in his successive efforts ; 
and some of his later compositions of this kind 
may be compared, in polished delicacy, with the 
finest songs in our language, while In the elo- 
quence of sensibility they surpass theio all. 

The songs of Burns, like the models he fol- 
lowed and excelled, aie often dramatic, and for 
the greater part amatory ; and the beauties of 
rural nature are every where associated with 
the passions and emotions of the mind. Dls- 



ments and remonstrating on this barbarity. She is in- 
terrupted— . 

" O then bespake her little son, 

Sate on his nourice knee ; 
Says ' mither dear, gi' owre this house. 

For the reck it smithers me.' 
" 1 wad gie a' my gowd, my childe, 

Sae wad 1 a' my fee, 
For ae blast o' the westlin wind, 

To blaw the reek frae thee." 

The circumstantiality of the Scottish love-songs, 
and the dramatic form which prevails so generally in 
them, probably arises from their bc^n^' the descendants 
and successors of the ancient ballads. In the beautiful 
modem song of Mary of Castle-Cary, the dramatic 
form has a very happy etrect The same may be sa id 
of Donald and Flora, .ind Come under my Plaidie, by 
the iBiQe author, Mr. Macnicl. 



daining to Copy tlie works of otWs, he has not, 
like some poets of great name, admitted into hit 
descriptions exotic imagery. The landscapes 
he has painted, and the objects with which they 
are embellished, are, in every single instance, 
such as are to be found in his own country. la 
a mountainous region, especially when it is 
comparatively rude and naked, the most beauti- 
ful scenery will always be found in the valleys, 
and on the banks of the wooded streams. Such 
scenery is peculiarly interesting at the close of a 
summer day. As we advance northwards, the 
number of the days of summer, indeed, dimi- 
nishes ; but from this cause, as well as from the 
mildness of the temperature, the attraction in- 
creases, and the summer night becomes still 
more beautiful. The greater obliquity of the 
sun's path in the ecliptic, prolongs the grateful 
season of twilight to the midnight hours, and 
the shades of the evening seem to mingle with 
the morning's dawn. The rural poets of Scot- 
land, as may be expected, associate in their 
songs the expression of passion, with the most 
beautiful of their scenery, in the fairest season 
of the ye;ir, and generally in those hours of the 
evening when the beauties of nature are most 
interesting. 

To all these adventitious circumstances, on 
which so much of the effect of poetry depends, 
great attention is paid by Burns. There is 
scarcely a single song of his in which particular 
scenery is not described, or allusions made to 
natural objects, remarkable for beauty or inte- 
rest ; and though his descriptions are not so full 
as are sometimes met with in the older Scottish 
songs, they are in the highest degree appropriate 
and interesting. Instances in proof of this 
might be quoted from the Lea Rig, Highland 
Mary, the Soldier's Hetitrii, Logan Water, 
from that beautiful pastoral, Bonnie Jean, and 
a gicat number of others. Occasionally the 
force of his genius carries him beyond the usual 
boundaries of Scottish song, and the natural 
objects Introduced have more of the character 
of sublimity. An instance of this kind is no- 
ticed by Mr. Syme, and many others might ba 
adduced. 

" Had I a cave on some wild, distant shore, 
Where the winds howl to the wave's dashing 
roar ; 
There would I weep my woes, 
There seek my lost repose. 
Till grief my eyes should close 
Ne'er to wake more." 

In one song, the scene of which is laid in a 
winter night, the " wan moon" is described ai 
" setting behind the white waves ;" in another, 
the "storms" are apostrophized, and command* 
ed to " rest in the cave of their slumbers." On 
several occasions, the genius of Burns loses sight 
entirely of his archetypes, and rises into a strain 
of uniform sublimity. Instances of this kind 
appear in Liberty, a Vision, and in his two 



96 



ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. 



Wdr-Bongs, Bruce to his troops, and the Song 
of Death. These last are of a description of 
which we have no other in our language. The 
martial songK of our nation are not military, but 
naval. If we were to seek a comparison of 
these songs of Burns with others of a similar 
nature, we must have recourse to the poetry of 
ancient Greece, or of modern Gaul. 

Burns has made an important addition to the 
jongs of Scotland. In his compositions, the 
poetry equals and sometimes surpasses the mu- 
sic. He has enlarged the poetical scenery of his 
country. Many of her rivers and mountains, 
formerly unknown to the muse, are now conse- 
crated by his imraortiil verse. The Doon, the 
Lugar, the Ayr, the Nith, and the Cluden, will 
in future, like the Yarrow, the Tweed, and the 
Tay, be considered as classic streams, and their 
borders will be trode with new and superior 
emotions. 

The greater part of the songs of Burns were 
written after he removed into the county of 
Dumfries. Influenced, perhaps, by habits 
formed in early life, he usually composed while 
walking in the open air. When engaged in 
writing these songs, his favourite walks were 
on the banks of the Nith, or of the Cluden, 
particularly near the ruins of Lincluden Abbey ; 
and this beautiful scenery he has very happily 
described under various aspects, as it appears 
during the softness and serenity of evening, and 
during the stillness and solemnity of the moon 
light night. 

There is no species of poetry, the productions 
of the drama not excepted, so much calculated 
to influence the morals, as well as the happiness 
of a people, as those popular verses which are 
associated with the national airs, and which 
being learnt in the years of infancy, make a 
deep impression on the heart before the evolu- 
iion of the powers of the understanding. The 
compositions of Burns, of this kind, now pre- 
sented in a collected form to the world, make a 
most important addition to the popular songs of 
his nation. Like all his other writings, they 
exhibit independence of sentiment ; they are 
peculiarly calculated to increase those ties which 
bind generous hearts to their native soil, and to 
the domestic circle of their infancy : and to 
cherish those sensibilities which, under due re- 
striction, form the purest happiness of our na- 
ture. If in his unguarded moments he com- 
posed some songs on which this praise cannot 
be bestowed, let us hope that they will speedily 
be forgotten. In several instances, where Scot- 
tish airs were allied to words objectionable in 
point of delicacy, Burns has substituted others 
of a jjurer character. On such occasions, with- 
out changing the subject, he has changed the 
sentiments. A proof of this may be seen in the 
air of John Anderson my Joe, which is now 
united to words that breathe a strain of conjugal 
tenderness, that is as highly moral as it is ex- 
•juisitely affecting. 

Few circumstances could a£ford » more atrik- 



ing proof of the strength of Bufm's genius, thatt 
the general circulation of his poems in England, 
notwithstanding the dialect in which the great- 
er part are written, and which might be sup- 
posed to render them here uncouth or obscure. 
In some instances he has used this dialect on 
subjects of a sublime nature ; but in general he 
conBnes it to sentiments or description of a 
tender or humorous kind ; and, where he rises 
into elevation of tliought, he assumes a purer 
English style. The singular faculty he pos- 
sessed of mingling in the same poem humorous 
sentiments and descriptions, with imagery of a 
sublime and terrific nature, enabled him to use 
this variety of dialect on some occasions with 
striking effect. His poem of 7am o' Shanter 
affords an instance of this. There he passes 
from a scene of the lowest humour, to situations 
of the most awful- and terrible kind. He is a 
musician that runs from the lowest to the 
highest of his keys ; and the use of the Scottish 
dialect enables him to add two additional notes 
to the bottom of his scale. 

Great efforts have been made by the inhabi- 
tants of Scotland, of the superior ranks, to ap- 
proximate in their speech to the pure English 
standard ; and this has made it difficult to write 
in the Scottish dialect, without exciting in them 
some feelings of disgust, which in England are 
scarcely felt. An Englishman who understands 
the meaning of the Scottish words, is not of- 
fended, nay, on certain subjects, he is perhaps 
pleased with the rustic dialect, as he may be 
with the Doric Greek of Theocritus. 

But a Scotchman inhabiting his own coun- 
try, if a man of education, and more especially 
if a literary character, has banished such words 
from his writings, and has attempted to banish 
them from his speech ; and being accustomed 
to hear them from the vulgar daily, does not 
easily admit of their use in poetry, which re- 
quires a style elevated and ornamental. A dis- 
like of this kind is, however, accidental, not na- 
tural. It is of the species of disgust which we 
feel at seeing a female of high birth in the dress 
of a rustic ; which, if she be really young and 
beautiful, a little habit will enable us to over- 
come. A lady who assumes such a dress puts 
her beauty, indeed, to a severer trial. She re- 
jects — she, indeed, opposes the influence of fa- 
shion ; she, possibly, abandons the grace of 
elegant and flowing drapeiy ; but her native 
charms remain, the more striking, perhaps, be- 
cause the less adorned ; and to these she trusts 
for fixing her empire on those affections over 
which fashion has no sway. If she succeeds, a 
new association arises. The dress of the beau- 
tiful rustic becomes itself beautiful, and estab- 
lishes a new fashion for the young and the gay. 
And when, in after ages, the contemplative ob- 
server shall view her picture in the gallery that 
contains the portraits of the beauties of succes- 
sive centuries, each in the dress of her respec- 
tive day, her drapery will not deviate, more 
than that of her rivals; from the standard of his 



ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. 



97 



taste, and lie will give the palm to her who ex- 
cels in the lineaments nf nature. 

Burns wrote professeflly for the peasantry of 
his country, and by them their native dialect is 
universally relished. To a numerous chiss of 
the natives of Scotland of another description, 
it may also be considered as attractive in a dif- 
ferent point of view. Estranged from their 
native soil, and spread over foreign lands, the 
idiom of their country unites with tlic senti- 
ments and the descriptions on which it is em- 
ployed, to jfcall to their minds the interesting 
scenes of infancy and youth — to awaken many 
pleasing, many tender recollections. Literary 
men, residing at Edinburgh or Aberdeen, can- 
not judge on this point for one hundred and 
fifty thousand of their expatriated countrymen. 

To the use of the Scottish dialect in one spe- 
cies of poetry, the composition of songs, the taste 
of the public has been for some time reconciled. 
The dialect in question excels, as has already 
been observed, in the copiousness and exactness 
of its terms for natural objects; and in pastoral 
or rural songs, it gives a Doric simplicity, which 
is very generall) approved. Neither does the 
regret seem well ^ funded which some persons of 
taste have expressed, that Burns used this dia- 
lect in so many other of his compositions. His 
declared purpose was to paint the manners of 
rustic life among his " humble compeers," and 
it is not easy to conceive, that this could have 
been done with equal humour and effect, if he 
had not adopted their idiom. There are some, 
indeed, who will think the subject too low for 
poetf)'. Persons of this sickly taste will find 
their delicacies consulted in many a polite and 
learned author ; let them not seek for gratifica- 
tion in the rough and vigorous lines, in the un- 
bridled humour, or in the overpowering sensi- 
bility of this bard of nature. 

To determine the comparative merit of Burns 
would be no easy task. Many persons after- 
wards distinguished in literature, have been 
bom in as humble a situation of life ; but it 
would be difficult to find any other who while 



earning his subsistence by daily labour, baa 
written verses which have attracted and re- 
tained universal attention, and which are likely 
to give the author a permanent and distinguish- 
ed place among the followers of the muses. It 
he is deficient in grace, he is distinguished for 
case as wci! as energy ; and these are indica- 
tions of the higher order of genius. The father 
of epic poetry exhibits one of his heroes as ex- 
celling in strength, another in swiftness — to 
f,;rni his perfect warrior, these attributes are 
ii):nbined. Every species of intellectual supe- 
riority admits, perhaps, of a similar arrange- 
ment. One v/riter excels in force — another in 
case; he is superior to them both, in whom 
both these qualities are united. Of Homer 
himself it may be said, that like his own Achil- 
les, he surpasses his competitors in mobility as 
well as strength. 

The force of Burns lay in the powers of his 
understanding, and in the sensibility of his 
heart ; and these will be found to infuse the 
living principle into all the works of genius 
which seem destined to immortality. His sen- 
sibility had an uncommon range. He was a- 
live to every species of emotion. He is one 
of the few poets that can be mentioned, who 
have at once excelled in humour, in tenderness, 
and in sublimity ; a praise unknown to the an- 
cients, and which in modern times is only due 
to Ariosto, to Shakspeare, and perhaps to Vol- 
taire. To compare the writings of the Scottish 
peasant with the works of these giants in liter- 
ature, might appear presumptuous ; yet it may 
be asserted that he has displayed the foot of 
Hercules. How near he might have approach- 
ed them by proper culture, with lengthened 
years, and under happier auspices, it is not for 
us to calculate. But while we run over the 
melancholy story of his life, it is impossible not 
to heave a sigh at the asperity of his fortune ; 
and as we survey the records of his mind, it is 
easy to see, that out of such materials have been 
reared the fairest and the most durable of th« 
monuments of genius. 



33 



99 



THE SONGS. 



The poetry of Burns has been referred to as one of the causes which 
prevented the Scottish language from falling into disuse. It was beginning 
to be discontinued as vulgar, even as the medium of oral communication ; 
and an obvious consequence of that state of the public taste was, that the 
Scottish songs, sweetly pathetic and expressive as many of them are, were 
not fashionable, but rather studiously avoided. The publication of his 
poetry changed this taste. Burns, followed by Scott, not merely revived 
the use of their native tongue in their own country, but gave it a cur- 
rency in the polite world generally ; an effect which was greatly assisted by 
Burns's songs, and not a little by what he did for the songs of his prede- 
cessors. He was a most devoted admirer of the l3Tical effusions of the 
olden time, and became a dihgent collector of the ancient words, as well 
as of the sets of the music. His remarks, historical and anecdotic, upon 
the several songs, are amusing and instructive ; and where there were 
blanks to be supplied, he was ready as powerful at a refit. To do all this, 
and at same time to double the stock of Scottish songs, was no small task ; 
and so well has it been executed, that in place of forming the amusement 
and delight of the Scots only, they have become a part, nay, have taken 
the lead, of the lyrical compositions used, and in fashion, throughout the 
British dominions. It is because of their intrinsic worth, as a branch of 
elegant amusement, that we have given the whole here, presented in two 
distinct parts : — The first part contains the songs before Burns, with the 
remarks, by which he has so felicitously illustrated them. — The second 
part is formed of his own songs, and which are now brought together, in 
place of being scattered over, and mixed with the prose pieces, as hereto- 
fore — The whole forming a complete collection of sekct Scottish Songs^ 
such as cannot fail to be acceptable to the lovers of good taste, and inno- 
cent amusement in every country. 



100 



SELECT 



SCOTTISH SONGS. 



[The poet Xhus writes to Mrs. Dunlop : — ' I 
had an old grand-undc, with whom my mo- 
ther hved awhile in her girlish years ; the 
good old man, for sueh he was, was long 
blind ere he died ; during which time, his 
highest enjoyment was to sit down and cry, 
while my mother would sing the simple old 
song of T/ie Lifu and Age of Man. ^ The 
song, as here given, was taken down from the 
recitation of the poet's mother, who had 
never seen a printed copy of it, — and had 
learned it from her mother in early youth. ] 

THE LIFE AND AGE OF MAN: 

OR, 

A SHORT DESCRIPTION OF HIS NATURE, RISE 

AND FALL, ACCORDING TO THE TWELVE 

MONTHS OF THE Y2AR. 

Tune-~" Isle of Kell." 

Upon the sixteen hunder year, 

of God and fifty three, 
Frae Christ was born, that bought us dear, 

as writings testifie ; 
On January the sixteenth day, 

as I did ly alone. 
With many a sigh and sob did say, 

Ah ! Man is made to moan. 

Dame Natur, that excellent bride, 

did stand up me before. 
And said to ine, thou must provide 

this life for to abhor : 
Tbou seest what things are gone before, 

experience teaches thee ; 
Yet do not miss to remember this, 

that one day thou must die. 

Of all the creatures bearing life 

recall back to thy mind, 
Consider how they ebb and flow, 

each thing in their own kind ; 
Yet few of them have such a strain, 

as God hath given to thee ; 
Therefore this lesson keep in mind, — 

remember man to die. 



Man's course on earth I will report, 

if I have time and space ; 
It may be long, it may be short, 

as God hath giv'n him grace. 
His uatur to the herbs compare, 

that in the ground ly dead ; 
And to each montii add five year, 

and so we will procede. 

The first five years then of man's life 

compare to Januar ; 
In all that time but start and strife, 

he can but greet and roar. 
So in the fields of flowers all bare, 

by reason of the frost ; 
Kept in the ground both safe and sounds 

not one of them is lost. 

So to years ten I shall speak then 

of Februar but lack ; 
The child is meek and weak of spir't, 

nothing can undertalie : 
So all the flow'rs, fur lack of show'rs, 

no springing up can make. 
Yet birds do sing and jjraise their king, 

and each one choose their mate. 

Then in comes March, that noble arch, 

with wholesome spring and air. 
The child doth spring to years fifteen, 

with visage fine and fair ; 
So do the flow'rs with softening show'r* 

ay spring up as we see ; 
Yet nevertheless remember this, 

that one day we must die. 

Then brave April duth sweetly smiley 

the fliiw'rs do lair appear. 
The iliild is thun become a man, 

to the age of twenty year ; 
If he be kind and well inrlin'd, 

and brought up at the school, 
Then men may know if he foreshow 

a wise man or a fool. 

Then cometh May, gallant and gay, 
when fragrant flow'rs do thrive, 



SONGS. 



101 



The child is then become a man, 

of age twenty and five : 
And for his life duth seek a.wife, 

his life and yeais to spend ; 
Christ from above send peace and love, 

and grace unto the end ! 

Then cometh June with pleasant tune, 

when fields with flow'rs are clad, 
And Phffibus bright is at his height, 

all creatures then are glad : 
Then he appears of thretty years, 

with courage bold and stout ; 
His nature so makes him to go, 

of death he hath no doubt. 

Then July comes with his hot climes, 

and constant in his kind. 
The man doth thrive to thirty-five, 

and sober grows in mind ; 
His children small do on hira call, 

and breed him stui t and strife ; 



Then August old, botli stout and bold, 

when flow'rs do stoutly stand ; 
So man appears to forty years, 

with wisdom and command ; 
And doth provide his house to guide, 

children and familie ; 
Yet do not miss t' remember this, 

that one day thou must die. 

September then comes with his train, 

and makes the flow'rs to fade ; 
Then man belyve is forty-five, 

grave, constant, wise, and staid. 
When he looks on, how youth is gone, 

and shall it no more see ; 
Then may he say, both night and day, 

have mercy, Lord, on me ! 

October's blast comes in with boast, 

and makes the flow'rs to fall ; 
Then man appears to fifty years, 

old age doth on him call : 
The almond tree doth flourish hie, 

and pale grows man we see ; 
Then it is time to use this line, 

remember, man, to die. 

November air maketh fields bare 

of flow'rs, of grasfr, and corn ; 
Then man arrives to fifty-five, 

and sick both e'en and morn : 
Loins, legs, and thighs, without disease, 

makes him to sigh and say. 
Ah ! Christ on high have mind on me, 

and learn me for to die ! 

December fell baith sharp and snell, 
makes flow'rs creep in the ground ; 

Then man's threescore, both sick and sore, 
DO soundness in him found. 



His ears and e'eo, and teeth of bane, 

all these now do him fiil ; 
Then may he say, l)oth night and day, 

that death shall him assail. 

And if there be, thro' natur stout, 

some that live ten years more ; 
Or if he creepeth up and down, 

till he comes to fourscore ; 
Yet all this time is but a line, 

no pleasure can he see : 
1 hen may he say, both night and df.y, 

have mercy. Lord, on me ! 

Thus have I shown you as I can, 

the course of all mens' life ; 
We will return where we began, 

but cither sturt or strife : 
Dame Memorie doth take her leave, 

she'll last no more, we see ; 
God grant that I may not you grieve, 

Ye" 11 get nae mair of me. 



BESS THE GAWKIE. 

This song shews that the Scottish Muses did 
not all leave us when we lost Ramsay and Os- 
wald,* as I have good reason to believe that 
the verses and music are both posterior to the 
days of these two gentlemen. — It is a beautiful 
song, and in the genuine Scots taste. We have 
few pastoral compositions, I mean the pastoral 
of nature, that are equal to this.— Burns. 

BtTTHE young Bess to Jean did say, 
Will ye gang to yon sunny brae. 
Where flocks do feed and herds do stray, 

And sport awhile wi' Jamie ? 
Ah na, lass, I'll no gang there. 
Nor about Jamie tak nae care. 
Nor about Jamie tak nae care, 

"For he's taen up wi' Maggy ! 

For hark, and I will tell you, lass, 
Drd I not see your Jamie pass, ] 
Wi' meikle gladness in his face. 

Out o'er the muir to Magg^, 
I wat he gae her mony a kiss. 
And ]Maggy took them ne'er amiss ; 
'Tween ilka smack, pleas'd her with this. 

That Bess was but a gawkie. 

For when a civil kiss I seek. 

She turns her head, and thraws her cheek, 



* Oswald was a inusic-seller in London, about the 
year 1750. He published a large colk-ction of Scottish 
tunes, which he called The Caledonian Pocket Compa- 
nion. Mr. Tytler obierves, that his genius in compo> 
sition, joined to his taste in the performance of Scot- 
tish miisie, was natural and pathetic. This song has 
been imputed to a clergyman— Mr. Morehead oi Ur 
jin Calloway. 



102 



BURNS' WORKS. 



And for au hour she'll scarcely speak ; 

Who'd not call her a gawkie ? 
But sure my Maggie has inair sense, 
She'll gie a score without offence ; 
I^^ow gie me ane unto the raense, 

And ye shall be my dawtie. 

O, Jamie, ye ha'e mony tane. 
But I will never stand for ane, 
Or twa, when we do meet again ; 

Sue ne'er think me a gawkie. 
Ah, na, lass, that ne'er can be. 
Sic thoughts as these are far from me, 
Or ony that sweet face that see. 

E'er to think thee a gawkie. 

But whisht ! — nae mair of this we'll speak, 
For yonder Jamie does us meet ; 
Instead of Meg he kiss'd sae sweet, 
I trow he likes the gawkie. 

dear bess, I hardly knew, 

"When 1 came by, your gown sae new, 

1 think you've got it wat wi' dew ; 

Quoth she, that'b like a gawkie : 

It's wat wi* dew, and 'twill get rain. 
And I'll get gowns when it is gane, 
Sae you may gang the gate you came, 

And tell it to your dawtie. 
The guilt appear'd in Jamie's cheek ; 
He cry'd, O cruel maid, but sweet, 
If 1 should gang anither gate, 

1 ne'er could meet my dawtie. 

The lasses fast frae him they flew, 
And left poor Jamie sair to rue, 
That ever Maggy's face he knew, 

Or yet ca'd Bess a gawkie. 
As they went o'er the muir they sang ; 
The liills and dales with echoes rang. 
The hills and dales with echoes rung. 

Gang o'er the muir to Maggy ' 



FAIR ANNIE OF LOCHROYAN. 

(oaiGIKAL SONG OF — OH OPEN THE DOOR, 
LOUD GREGORY). 

It is somewhat singular, that in Lanark, 
Renfrew, Ayr, Wigton, Kirkcudbright, and 
Dumfries-shires, there is scarcely an old song 
or tune which, from the title, &c. can be gues. 
sed to belong to, or be the production of these 
counties. This, I conjecture, is one of these 
very few ; as the ballad, which is a long one, 
b called both by tradition and in printed collec- 
tions. The Zioss o' Lochroyan, which I take to 
be Lochroyaa in Galloway — Burns. 

SwEKT Annie built a bonnie ship. 

And set her on the sea ; 
The sails were a' of the damask silk} 

The auists of silver iiree. 



The gladsome waters sung below. 

And the sweet wind sung above- 
Make way for Annie of Lochroyan, 
She comes to seek her love. 

A gentle wind came with a sweep, 
And stretched her silken sail, 

Wlien up there came a reaver rude. 
With many a shout and hail : 

touch her not, my mariners a*, 
Such loveliness goes free ; 

Make way for Annie of Lochroyan, 
She seeks Lord Gregorie. 

The moon looked out with all her stars, 

The ship moved merrily on. 
Until she came to a castle high. 

That all as diamonds shone : 
On every tower there streamed a light, 

Oa the middle tower shone three- 
Move for that tower my mariners a', 

Jly love keeps watch for me. 

She took her young son in her arms. 

And on the deck she stood — 
The wind rose with an angry gust. 

The sea wave wakened rude. 
Oh open the door. Lord Gregory, love ; 

Oh open and let me in ; 
The sea foam hangs in my yellow hair, 

The surge dreeps down my chin. 

All for thy sake. Lord Gregoiy, love, 

I have sailed the perilous way. 
And thy fair son is 'tween my breasts. 

And he'll be dead ere day. 
The fiiam hangs on the topmost cliff. 

The fires run on the sky, 
And hear you not your true love's voice, 

And her sweet baby's ciy ? 

Fair Annie turned her round about. 

And tears began to flow- 
May never a baby suck a breast 

Wi* a heart sae fou of woe. 
Take down, take down that silver mast. 

Set up a mast of tree. 
It does nae become a forsaken dame 

To sail sae royallie. 

Oh read my dream, my mother, dear— 

I heard a sweet babe greet. 
And saw fair Annie of Lochroyaa 

Lie cauld dead at my feet. 
And loud and loud his mother laughed— 

Oh sights mair sure than sleep, 

1 saw fair Annie, aud heaid her voice. 

And her baby wail and weep. 

he went down to yon sea side 

As fast as he could fare. 
He saw fair Annie and her sweet babe. 

But the wild wind tossed them sair; 
Aod hey Annie, and how Annie, 

And Aoaie wiaaa ye bids ? 



I 



SONOS 



101 



Btti &ye the mair he called Axffile, 
The broader grew the tide> 

And hey Annie, and how Anniet 

Dear Annie speak to mc, 
But aye the louder he cried Annie, 

The louder roared the sea. 
The wind wased loud, the sea grew rough, 

The ship sunk nigh the shore, 
Fair Annie floated through the foam, 

But the baby rose no more. 

O first he kissed her cherry cheek. 

And then he kissed her chin. 
And syne he kissed her rosy Ups, 

But there was nae breath within. 
O my love's love was true as light. 

As meek and sweet was she — 
My mother's hate was strong as death. 

And fiercer than the sea. 



ROSLIN CASTLE. 

These beautiful verses were the production 
of a Richard Hewit, a young man that Dr. 
Blacklock, to whom I am indebted for the anec • 
dote, kept for some years as an amanuensis. I 
do not know who was the author of the second 
Bong to the tune. Tytler, in his amusing his- 
tory of Scots music, gives the- air to Oswald ; 
but in Oswald's own collectioa of Scots tunes, 
where he affixes an asterisk to those he himself 
composed, he does not make the least claim to 
the tune.— Burns. 

'TwAS in that season of the year, 
Wheu all things gay and sweet appear, 
That Colin, with the morning ray, 
Arose and sung his rural lay. 
Of Nanny's charms the shepherd sung, 
The hills and dales with Nanny rung ; 
While Roslin Castle heard the swain. 
And echoed back the cheerful strain. 

Awake, sweet Muse ! the breathing spring, 
With rapture warms ; awake and sing ! 
Awake and join the vocal throng, 
Who hail the morning with a song ; ] 
To Nanny raise the cheerful lay, 
O ! bid her haste and come away ; 
In sweetest smiles herself adorn. 
And add new graces to the morn ! 

O, hark, my love ! on ev'ry spray. 
Each feather'd warbler tunes his lay ; 
'Tis beauty fires the ravish'd throng. 
And love inspires the melting song : 
Then let my raptur'd notes arise, 
For beauty darts from Nanny's eyes ; 
And love my rising bosom warms. 
And fills my soul with sweet alarms. 



O ! come, my love ! thy Colin'* lay 

With rapture calif, O come away ! 

Come, while the Muse this wreath ciuU twin* 

Around that modest brow of thine ; 

O ! hither haste, and with thee bring 

That beauty blooming like the spring ; 

Those graces that divinely shine, 

And charm this ravish'd breast of mine ! 



SAW YE JOHNNIE CDMMIN? 
QUO' SHE. 

This song for genuine humour in tk« veriMt 
and lively originality in the air, it uapirallcled. 
I take it to be very old. — Bukns. 

Saw ye Johnnie cummin ? quo* she. 
Saw ye Johnnie cummin, 

saw ye Johnnie cummin, quo' she ; 
Saw ye Johnnie cummin, 

Wi' his blue bonnet on his head, 
And his doggie runnin, quo' the > 
And his doggie ruonin ? 

Fee him, father, fee him, quo' she ; 

Fee him, father, fee him : 
For he is a gallant lad, 

And a weel doiu' ; 
And a' the wark about the houK 

Gaes wi' me when I set him, quo' ilk» ; 

Wi* me when I see him. 

Wliat will I do wi' him, hussy ? 

What will I do wi' him ? 
He's ne'er a sark upon his back. 

And I hae nane to gie him. 

1 hae twa sarks into my kist. 

And ane o' them I'll gie him, 
Aud for a mark of mair flee, 

Dinna stand wi' him, quo' ■h< ; 
Dinna stand wi' him. 

For weel do I lo'e him, quo' she ; 

Weel do I lo'e him ; 
O fee him, father, fee him, quo' she ; 

Fee him, father, fee him ; 
He'll baud the pleugh, thrash i' the bftni« 

And lie wi' me at e'en, quo' she ; 

Lie wi' me at e'en. 



CLOUT THE CALDRON. 

A TKADiTioN is mentioned in the See, that 
the second Bishop Chisholra, of Dunblane, used 
to say, that if he were going to be hanged, no- 
thing would soothe his mind so much by tht 
way, as to hear Clout the Caldron played. 



idi 



BURNS* WORKS. 



I have met with another traition, that the 
old BODg to this tune, 

Hae ye ony pots or pans, 
Or onie broken chanlers, 

was composed on one of tlie Kenmure family, in 
the Cavalier times ; and alluded to an amour he 
had, while under hiding, in the disguise of an 
itinerant tinker. The air is also known by the 
name of 

The Blacksmith and his Apron, 

which from the rythym, seems to have' been a 
line of some old song to the tune. — Burns. 

Have you any pots or pans, 

Or any broken chandlers ? 
I am a tinkler to my trade, 

And newly come fiae Flanders, 
As scant of siller as of grace, 

Disbanded, we've a bad run ; 
Gar tell the lady of the place, 

I'm come to clout her caldron. 

Faadrie, didle, didle, Sec. 

Madam, if you have wark for me, 

I'll do't to your contentment, 
And dinna Care a single flie 

For any man's resentment ; 
For, lady fair, though 1 appear 

To ev'ry ane a tinkler. 
Yet to yoursel I'm bauld to tell, 

I am a gentle jinker. 

Fa adrie, didle, didle, kc. 

Love Jupiter into a swan 

Turn'd for his lovely Leda ; 
He like a bull o'er meadows ran. 

To carry aff Europa. 
Then may not I, as well as he, 

To cheat your Argos blinker, 
And win your love, like mighty Jove, 

Thus hide me in a tinkler ? 

Fa adrie, didle, didle, &c. 

Sir, ye appear a cunning man, 

But this fine plot you'll fail in. 
For there is neither pot nor pan 

Of mine you'll drive a nail in. 
Then bind your budget on your back, 

And nails up in your apron. 
For I've a tinkler under tack 

That's us'd to clout my caldron. 
Fa adrie, didle, didle, kc. 



SAW YE NAE MY PEGGY? 

This charming song is much older, and in- 
deed superior, to Ramsay's verses, " The Toast," 
as he calU them. There is another set of the 
words, much older still, and which I take to be 



the original one, but though Tt bu a wry gfMft 

deal of merit, it is not quite ladies' reading.-* 

BUHNS. 

Saw ye nae my Peggy, 
Saw ye nae my Peggy, 
Saw ye nae my Peggy, 

Coming o'er the lea ? ^ 

Sure a finer creature 
Ne'er was form'd by nature, 
So complete each feature, 

So divine is she. 

O ! how Peggy charms me ; 
Every look still warms me ; 
Every thought alarms me. 

Lest she love nae me. 
Peggy doth discover 
Nought but charms all over ; 
Nature bids nie love her, 

That's a law to me. 

Wlao would leave a lover, 
To become a rover ? 
No, I'll ne'er give over, 

'Till I happy be. . 
For since love inspires me, 
As her beauty fires me. 
And her absence tires me, 

Nought can please but she. 

■When I hope to gain her, 
Fate seems to detain her, 
Cou'd I but obtain her, 
Happy wou'd I be ! 
I'll ly down before her, 
Bless, sigh, and adore her. 
With faint looks implore her, 
'Till she pity me. 

The original words, for they can scarcely be 
called verses, seem to be as follows ; a song fa- 
miliar from the cradle to every Scottish ear. 

Saw ye my IMaggie, 
Saw ye my IMaggie, 
Saw ye my Maggie, 
Linkin o'er the lea ? 

High kilted was she, 
High kilted was she, 
High kilted was she, 
Her coat aboon her knee. 

What mark has your Maggie, 
What mark has your Maggie» 
What mark has your Maggie, 
That ane may ken Lci ve 9 (6y) 

Though it by no means follows that the sU* 
liest verses to an air must, for that reason, be 
the original song ; yet I take this ballad, of 
which 1 have quoted part, to be the old verses. 
The two songs in Ramsay, one of them evi- 
dently his own, are never to be met with in Him 



SONGS. 



10ft 



fire-Bide circle of our peasantry ; while that 
which I take to be the old song, is in every 
shepherd's month. Ramsay, I suppose, had 
thought the old verses unworthy of a place in 
his collection.— Burns. 



FYE, GAE RUB HER O'ER WI" STRAE. 

It is self-evident that the first four lines of 
this song are part of a song more ancient than 
Ramsay's beautiful verses which are annexed to 
them. As music is the language of nature ; and 
•poetry, particularly songs, are always less or 
more localized (if I may be allowed the verb) 
hy some of the modifications of time and place, 
Ihis is the reason why so many of our Scots airs 
have outlived their original, and perhaps many 
subsequent sets of verses ; except a single name, 
3r phrase, or sometimes one or two lines, simply 
to distinguish the tunes by. 

To this day among people who know nothing 
cf Ramsay's verses, the following is the song, 
oad all the song that ever I heard : — Burns. 

Gin ye meet a bonnie lassie, 

Gie her a kiss and let her gae ; 
But gin ye meet a dirty hizzie, 

Fye, gar rub her o'er wi' strae. 

Fye, gae rub her, rub her rub her, 

Fye, gae rub her o'er wi' strae : 
An' gin ye meet a dirty hizzie, 

Fye, gar rub her o'er wi' strae. 



Look up to Pentland's tow'ring tap, 
Bury'd beneath great wreaths of snaw, 

O'er ilka cleugh, ilk scar, and slap, 
As high as ony Roman wa.' 

Driving their baws frae whins or tee, 
There's no nao gowfers to be seen ; 

Nor dousser fov/k wysing a-jee 

The byass-bouls on Tamson's green. 

Then fling on coals, and ripe the ribs, 
And beek the house baith butt and ben ; 

That mutchkin stowp it hads but dribs, 
Then let's get in the tappit hen. 

Good claret best keeps out the cauld, 
And drives away the'winter soon ; 

It makes a man baith piasV ind bauld, 
And heaves his saul beyond the moon. 

Leave to the gods your ilka care. 

If that they think us worth their while, 

I'hey can a rowth of blessings spare, 
Which will our fashious fears beguile. 

For what they have a mind to do, 

That will thev do, should we gang wood ; 



If they command the storms to blaw, 
Then upo' sight the hoiistalos thud 

But soon as ere they cry, " Be quiet,* 

The blatt'ring winds dare nae mair RlOTtt 

But cour into their caves, and wait 
The high command of supreme Jovi. 

Let neist day come as it thinks fit, 
Tlie present minute's only ours ; 

On pleasure let's employ our wit, 
And laugh at fortune's fickle powen. 

Be sure ye dinna quat the grip 

Of ilka joy when ye are young, 
Before auld age your vitals nip, 

And lay ye twafald o'er a rung. 

Sweet youth's a blythe and heartsome time ; 

Then, lads and lasses, while it's May, 
Gae pou the gowan in its prime, 

Before it wither and decay. 

Watch the saft minutes of delyte. 

When Jenny speaks beneath her breatllt 

And kisses, laying a' the wyte 
On you, if she kepp ony skaith. 

" Haith, ye' re ill-bred," she'll smiling sajr { 

" Ye'll worry me, ye greedy rook;" 
Syne frae your arms she'll rin ivray. 
And hide hersell in some dark nook. 

Her laugh will lead you to the place 
Where lies the happiness you want, 

And plainly tells you to your face, 
Nineteen nay-says are haflf a grant. 

Now to her heaving bosom cling, 

And sweetly toolie for a kiss, 
Frae her fair fiuger whop a ring. 

As taiken of a future bless. 

These bennisons, I'm very sure, 
Are of the gods' indulgent grant ; 

Then, surly carles, whisht, forbear 
To plague us with your whining cant. 



THE LASS O' LIVISTON. 

The old song, in three eight-line stansas, is 
well Icnown, and has merit as to wit and hu- 
mour ; but it is rather unlit for insertion,— It 
begins. 

The bonnie lass o' Liviston, 

Her name ye ken, her name ye ken, 

And she has written in her contract^ 
To lie her lane, to lie her lane, 



H 



i06 



BURNS' WORKS. 



THE LAST TIME I CAME O'ER THE 
MUIR. 

Ramsay found the first line of this song, 
which bad been preserved as the title of the 
charming air, and then composed the rest of the 
verses to suit that line. This has always a finer 
effect than composing English words, or words 
with an idea foreign to the spirit of the old title. 
Where old titles of songs convey any idea at all, 
it will generally be found to be quite in the 
•pirit of the air — Burns. 

The last time I came o'er the muir, 

I left my love behind me : 
Ye pow'rs ! what pain do I endure, 

When soft ideas mind me. 
Soon as the ruddy morn displayed 

The beaming day ensuing, 
I met betimes my lovely maid, 

In fit retreats for wooing. 

Beneith the cooling shade we lay, 

Gazing and chastely sportiag ; 
We kiss'd and promis'd time away. 

Till night spread her black curtain : 
I pitied all beneath the skies, 

Ev'n kings, when she was nigh me ; 
In raptures I beheld her eyes, 

Which could but ill deny me. 

Should I be call'd where cannons roar. 

Where mortal steel may wound me ; 
Or cast upon some foreign shore. 

Where dangers may surround me ; 
Yet hopes again to see my love. 

To feast on glowing kisses, 
Shall make my cares at distance move, 

In prospect of such blisses. 

In all my soul there's not one place 

To let a rival enter ; 
Since she excels in ev'ry grace, 

In her my love shall centre. 
Sooner the seas shall cease to flow, 

Their waves the Alps shall cover ; 
On Greenland's ice shall roses grow. 

Before I cease to love her. 

The next time I gang o'er the muir. 

She shall a lover find me ; 
And that my faith is firm and pure, 

Though I left her behind me. 
Then Hymen's sacred bonds shall chain 

My heart to her fair bosom ; 
There, while my being does remain. 

My love more fresh shall blossom. 



The Weaver and *|» Shuttle, O, \vh\ti' 
though sung much quicker, is every not« th« 
very tune. 

When I was in my se'nteen yt«r, 

I was baith hlythe and bonny, 
O the lads ioo'd ine baith far and near, 

But I Ioo'd nane but Johnny : 
He gain'd my heart in twa three weekig 

He spake sae blythe and kindly ; 
And I made him new gray breeks, 

That fitted him most finely. 

He was a handsome fellow ; 

His humour was baith frank and freot 
His bonny locks sae yellow. 

Like gowd they glitter'd in my ee ;— 
His dimpl'd chin and rosy cheeks, 

And face sae fair and ruddy ; 
And then a-days his gray breeks. 

Was neither auld nor duddy. 

But now they're threadbare worn, 

They're wider than they wont to be | 
They're tashed-like,* and sair torn, 

And clouted sair on ilka knee. 
But gin I had a simmer's day, 

As I have had right mony, 
I'd make a web o' new gray. 

To be breeks to my Johnny. 

For he's weel wordy o* tbem. 

And better gin I had to gie. 
And I'll tak pains upo' them, 

Frae fauts I'll strive to keep them fitft.- 
To dead him weel shall be my care, 

And please him a' my study ; 
But he maun wear the auld pair 

Av?e<:, tho' they be duddy. 

For when the lad was in his prime. 

Like him there was nae mony 
He ca'd me aye his bonny thing, 

Sae wha wou'd na lo'e Johnny ? 
So I lo'e Johnny's gray breeks. 

For a' the care they've gi'en me yet. 
And gin we live anither year, 

We'll keep them hale between us yet. 

Now to conclude, — ^his gray breeks, 

I'll sing them up wi* mirth and glee ; 
Here's luck to a' the gray stceks, 

That show themsells upo' the knee ! 
And if wi' health I'm spared, 

A' wee while as I may, 
I shall hae them prepai'ed. 

As weel as ony that's o' gray. 



JOHNNY'S GRAY BREEKS. 

Though this has certainly every evidence o? 
'a»jng a Scottisn air, yet there is a well-known 
Stan and eong ia the No{th of Ireland, called, 



SUlneO. 



SONGS. 



107 



MAY EVF OR KATE OF ABERDEEN. 

Kate of Aberdeen, is, I believe, the work of 
poor Cunaingham the phyer ; of whom the fol- 
lowing anecdote, though told before, deserves a 
recital. A fat dignitary of the chmch coining 
past Cunningham one Sundu;/ as the poor poet 
was busy plying a fii^hing-rod in some stream 
near Durham, his native country, his reverence 
reprimanded Cunningham very severely for such 
an occupation on such a day. The poor pnet, 
with that inoffensive gentleness of manners which 
was his peculiar characteristic, replied, that he 
hoped God and his reverence would forgive his 
seeming profanity of that sacred day, " as he had 
no dinner to eat, but what lay at the bottom of 
that pool J" This, Mr. Woods, the player, who 
knew Cunningham well, and esteemed him much, 
assured roe was true. — Bunxs. 

The silver moon's enamour'd beam, 

Steals softly through the night. 
To wanton with the winding stream, 

And kiss reflected light. 
To beds of state go balmy sleep, 

('Tis where you've seldom been), 
May's vigil while the shepherds keep 

With Kate of Aberdeen ! 

Upon the greek the virgins wait, 

In rosy chaplets gay, 
Till raorn unbar her golden gate, 

And give the promis'd AJay. 
Blethinks I hear the maids declare 

The promis'd May, when seen, 
Not half 50 fragrant, half so fair-, 

As Kate of Aberdeen ! 

Strike up the tabor's boldest notes, 

We'll rouse the nodding grove ; 
The nested birds shall raise their throats, 

And hail the maid I love : 
And see— the matin lark mistakes, 

He quits the tufted green ; 
Fond bird ! 'tis not the morning breaks, 

'Tis Kate of Aberdeen ! 

Now lightsome o'er the level mead. 

Where midnight fairies rove. 
Like them, the jocund dance we'll lead, 

Or tune the reed to love : 
For see the rosy May draws nigh. 

She claims a virgin queen ; 
And hark, the happy shepherds cry, 

'"Tis Kate of Aberdeen!" 



THE LASS OF PATIE'S MILL. 

Ik Sinclair's Statistical Account of Scotland, 

tlus BOBg is localized (a verb I must use for want 

of another to express my idea) somewhere in the xo„ \. a , j'.u — :"•■ l" 

V ^x. e a »i J J VI • ■ . ■ , , t Bums had placed the asterums between the 0th 

Korth of Scotland, and lik«wise la claimed by and 10th veues. Tbeveweishererewr^ ^ 



Ayrshire The following anecdote I Had from 

the present Sir William Cunningham, of Robtrt- 
land, who had it from the last John, Earl of 
Loudon. — The then Earl of Loudon, father to 
Earl John, before mentioned, had Ramsay at 
Loudon, and one day walking together by tho 
banks of Irvine water, near New-Mills, at a 
place yet called Patie's Mill, they were struck 
with the appearance of a beautiful country girl. 
His lordship observed, that she would be a fine 
theme fur a song Allan lagged behind in re- 
turning to Loudon Castle, and at dinner produc- 
ed this identical song. — Burns. 

The lass of Paties mill, 

So bonny, blythe, and ^ay. 
In spite of all my skill, 

She stole ray heart away. 
When tedding of the hay, 

Bare-headed on the green, 
Love 'midst her locks did play. 

And wanton'd in her een. 

Her arms white, round, and smooth, 

Breasts rising in their dawa, 
To age it would give youth. 

To press 'em with his hand : 
Thro' all my spirits ran 

An ecstasy of bliss, 
Wlien I such sweetness fand 

Wrapt in a balmy kiss. 

Without the help of art. 

Like flowers which grace the wild. 
She did her sweets impart, 

Whene'er she spoke or smil'd. 
Her looks they were so mild. 

Free from affected pride, 
She me to love beguil'd ; 

1 wish'd her for my bride. 



O had I all that wealth, 

Hopeton's high mountains 
Insur'd lang life and health. 

And pleasure at my will ; 
I'd promise and fuitil, 

That none but bonny she. 
The lass of Patie's mill 

Shou'd share the same wi' me. 



fill. 



THE TURNIMSPIKE. 

There is a stanza of this excellent song for 
local humour, omitted in this set, — where I har^ 
placed the astensnis.f 

Hersell pe highlanii ihentleman, 
Pe auld as Pothwell Prig, man ; 



• Thirty-three milei south-we«t of Edlnbunrh 
(here the Earl of Hopeton's mines are. ' 



lOd 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Aai atony alterations Mtn 
Amang te lawlat.d whi^, man. 
Fal, ^c , 

Fir»t when her to the lawlands came, 
Nainsel was driving cows, man ; 

There was nae laws about him's nerso, 
About the preeks or trews, man. 

Jfatnsell did wear the philabeg, 
The plaid prick't on her shouder ; 

The guid claynore hung pe her pelt, 
De pistol sharg'd wi' pouder. 

But for whereas these cursed preeks. 
Wherewith man's nerse be locket, 

O hon ! that e'er she saw the day ! 
For a' her houghs be prokit. 

Every ting iu de highlands now 

Pe turn'd to alteration ; 
The sodger dwall at our door-sheek. 

And tat's te great vexation. 

Scotland be turn't a Ningland now, 
An* laws pring on de eager ; 

Nainsell wad durk him for his deeds, 
But oh ! she fear te sodger. 

Anither law came after dat, 

Me never saw de like, man ; 
They mak a lang road on de crund, 

And ca' him Tumimspike, man. 

An* wow ! she pe a ponny road. 
Like Louden corn-rigs, man ; 

Where twa carts may gang on her. 
An' no preak ithers legs, man. 

They sharge a penny for ilka horse, 
(In troth, they'll no pe sheaper) ; 

For nought but gaen upo' the crund, 
And they gie me a paper. 

Thty tak the horse then py te head, 
And tere tey mak her stan, man } 

Me tell tern, me hae seen te day, 
Tey had na sic common', man. 

Nae doubt, Nainsell maun traw his purse, 
And pay tem what him likes, man ; 

I'U see a shudgment on his toor ; 
Tat filthy Turnimspike, man. 

But I'll awa to the Highland hills, 
Where te'il a ane dare turn her. 

And no come near your Turnimspike, 
Unless it pe to purn her. 

Fal, §-c. 



HIGHLAND LADDIE. 

As this was a favourite theme with our later 
Scottish muse!>, there are several airs and songs 
of that name. That which I take to be the 
oldest, is to be found in the Musical Museum, 
beginning, / hue been at Crookie-den,— 

I HAE been at Crookie-den,* 

My bonniu laddie, Highland laddie ; 

Viewing Willie and his men, 

My bonnie laddie, Highland laddie. 

There our faes that burnt and slew, 
My bonnie laddie, Highland laddie ; 

There, at last, they gat their due, 
My bonnie laddie. Highland laddie. 

Satan sits in his black neuk. 

My bonnie laddie, Highland laddie ; 

Breaking sticks to roast the Duke, 
My bonnie laddie, Highland laddie : 

The bluidy monster gae a yell, 

Aly bonnie laddie, Highland laddie ; 

And loud the laugh gaed round a' hell ! 
I\Iy bonnie laddie, Highland laddie. 

One of my reasons is, that Oswald has it in his 
collection by the name of The auld Highland 
Laddie. — It is also known by the name of 
Jinglan Johnie, which is a well known song of 
four or five stanzas, and seems to be an earlier 
song than Jacobite times. As a proof of this, it 
is little known to the peasantry by the name of 
Highland Laddie ; while every body knows 
Jinglan Johnie. The song begins, 

Jinglan John, the mcickle man. 

He met wi' a lass was blythe and bonnie. 

Another Higland Laddie is also in the Mu- 
seutn, vol. v. which I take to be Ramsay's ori- 
ginal, as he has borrowed the chorus " O my 
bonnie Highland lad, §-c." It consists of three 
stanzas, besides the chorus ; and has humour in 
its composition — it is an excellent but somewhat 
licentious song. — It begins, 

As I cam o'er Caimey-Mount, 

And down amang the blooming heather, &c. 

This air, and the common Highland Laddie, 
seem only to be different sets. 

Another Highland Laddie, also in the Mu- 
seum, vol. v. is the tune of several Jacobite frag 
ments.— One of these old songs to it, only exists, 
as far as I know, in these four lines— 

Whare hae ye been a' day, 

Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie f 
Down the back o' Bell's brae, 

Courtin Maggie, courtin Maggie. 



• A cant name foi Hell, 



SONGS. 



109 



AnotW oi this name is Dr. Arne's beautiful air, 
called, the new Highland Laddie. * 



THE BLAITHRIE O'T. 

The following is a set of this song, which 
was the earliest song I remember to have got by 
heart. When a child, an old woman sung it to 
me, and I picked it up, every word, at first 
hearing. 

WiiLT weel I mind, I lent you my hand. 
To sing you a song which you did me command ; 
But my memory's so bad, I had almost forgot 
That you call'd it the gear and the blaithrie o't. 

I'll not sing about con^sion, delusion, or pride, 
I'll sing about a laddie was for a virtuous bride ; 
For virtue is an ornament that time will never 

rot, 
And preferable to gear and the blaithrie o't. 

Tho' my l^ie hae nae scarlets or silks to put on, 
We envy not the greatest that sits upon the 
throne ; 

1 wad rather hae my lassie, tho' she cam in her 

smock. 
Than a princess wi' the gear and the blaithrie o't. 

Tho' we hae nae horses or menzie at command, 
We will toil on our foot, and we'll work wi' our 

hand ; 
And when wearied without rest, we'll find it 

sweet in any spot, 
And we'll value not the gear and the blaithrie o't, 

If we hae ony babies, we'll count them as lent ; 
Hae we less, hae we raair, we will aye be content ; 
For they say they hae mair pleasure that wins 

but a groat. 
Than the miser wi' his gear anil the blaithrie o't. 

rU not meddle wi' th' affairs o' the kirk or the 

queen ; 
They're nae matters for a sang, let them sink 

let them swim, 
On your kirk I'll ne'er encroach, but I'll hold it 

still remote, 
Sae tak this for the gear and the blaithrie o't. 



THE BLAITHRIE O'T. 

When I think on this warld's pelf, 

And the little wee share I have o't to myself, 



• The following observation wai found In a memo- 
tandum book belonging to Burns: 

The Highlanders' Prayer at Sheriff-Sfuir. 
" O L— d be thou with u% ; but, if ihou be nnt with 
us, be not again*; \ui k»t Uavt U Mmttn the rtd eoalt 
mdrur 



And how the -lass that wants it is by th» kdi 

forgot, 
May the shame fa' the gear and the blaithrie o't !* 

Jockie was the laddie that held the pleugh. 
But now he's got gowd and gear eneugh ; 
He thinks nae mair of me that wears the plaiden 

coat ; 
May the shame fa* the gear and the blaithrie o't ! 

Jenny was the lassie that mucked the byre. 

But now she is clad in her silken attire, 

And Jockie says he lo'es her, and swears he's 

me forgot ; 
May the shame fa' the gear and the blaithrie o't I 

But all this shall never daunton me. 

Sac lang's I keep ray fancy free : 

For the lad that's sae inconstant, he's not worth 

a groat ; 
May the shame fa' the gear and the blaithrif o't ! 



TWEEDSIDE. 

In Ramsay's Tea-tahle Miscellant/, he tells 
us that about thirty of the songs in that publi- 
cation were the works of some young gentlemen 
of his acquaintance ; which songs are marked 

with the letters D. C, &c Old Mr. Tytler, 

of Woodhouselee, the worthy and able defender 
of the beauteous Queen of Scots, told me that 
the songs marked C, in the Tea-table, were the 
composition of a Mr. Crawford, of the house of 
Achinames, who was afterwards unfortunately 

drowned coming from France As Tytler was 

most intimately acquainted with Allan Ramsay., 
I think the anecdote may be depended on. Of 
consequence, the beautiful song of Tweedside is 
Mr. Crawford's, and indeed does great honour 
to his poetical talents. He was a Robert Craw- 
ford ; the Mary he celebrates, was Mary Stuart, 
of the Castlemilk family, afterwards married to 
a Mr. John Belches. 

What beauties does Flora disclose ! 

How sweet are her smiles upon Tweed ! 
Yet Mary's still sweeter than those ; 

Both nature and fancy exceed. 
Nor daisy, nor sweet blushing rose. 

Not all the gay flowers of the field. 
Nor Tweed gliding gently through those. 

Such beauty and pleasure does yield. 

The warblers are heard in the grove, 
The linnet, the lark, and the thrush, 

The blackbird and sweet- cooing dove, 
With music enchant ev'ry bush. 



♦ Shame fall the gear and the blad'rj/ o't, if the turn 
of an old Scottish sonp, spolien when ■ yotipf hand- 
some girl marries an old nian, upon the lOCOUOt of till 
wealUi.— K«Uy'» Seott J^vvtrbs, 



no 



BURINS' WORKS. 



Cout, lei Ul ^0 forlk io t^« Meiii, 
Let Ul se« now the prirarosca !<pi'ieg; 

We'll \6dgt in sOttie village oti Tweed, 
And love while the feather'd folks sing, 

How does my love pass the long day ? 

Does Mary not 'tend a few sheep ? 
Do they never careles"*ly stray, 

While happily she lien asleep ? 
Tweed's murmui-s should lull her to rest ; 

Kind nature indulging my bliss, 
To relieve the soft pains of my breast, 

I'd steal an ambrosial kiss. 

*Tii she does the virgins excel, 

No beauty with her may coiii));irc ; 
Love's graces around her do dwell ; 

She's fairest, where thousanils are fair. 
Say, charmer, where do thy flocks stray ? 

Oh ! tell me at noon where they feed ; 
Shall I seek them on sweet wiiirlina; Tay, 

Or the pleasanter banks of the Tweed ? 

1 have seen a song, calling itself the original 
Tweedside, and said to have been composed by 
m Lord Yester. It consisted of two stanzas, of 
whick I still recollect the fir^t. 

Whek Maggy and T was acquaint, 

I carried my noddle fu' hie ; 
Nae lintwhite on a' the giccn plain, 

Nor gowdspink sae happy as me : 
But I saw her sae fair, and I loV-d ; 

I woo'd, but I came nae great speed ; 
So now I maun wander abro:id, 

And lay my banes far frae the Tweed. 

The last stanza runs thus : — Ed, 

To Meiggy my love I did tell, 

Saut tears did my passion express, 
Ala* ! for I loo'd her o'erwell, 

An' the women loo sic a man less. 
Her heart it ■was frozen and c:uil<l. 

Her pride had my ruin decreed ; 
Thwefore I will wander abroi'l. 

And lay my banes far frae the Tweed. 



THE BOATIE ROVv'S. 

The author of the Boatle Mows, was a Mr. 
Ewen of Aberdeen. It is a charming display of 
womanly afil'itioii minijllns with the concerns 
and occupation J of life. It is nearly equal to 
Thtre's nae liicJi about the house. 

O WEEL may the boatie row, 
And better luay ''he speed ; 
And leesome iniy the boatie row 
That wins my bairns bread : 
The boatie rows, the boatie rows, 
The boatie rows indeed ; 
And weel may the boatie row 
That wins the bair^t^ bread> 



I cust » my line In Largo biy, 

.\nd fishes I catch'd nine ; 

There was three to boil, and three to fcf 

And three to bait t'ne linfe: 

The boatie rows, the boatie rows, 

The boatie rows indeed ; 

And happy be the lot of a' 

Who wishes her to speed. 

O weel may the boatie row. 
That fills a heavy creel, f 
And cleads us a' frae head to feet, 
And buys our porridge meal : 
The boatie rows, the boatie rows, 
The boatie rows indeed ; 
And happy be the lot of a' 
That wish the boatie speed. 

When Jamie vow'd he would be minev 
And wan frae me my heart, 

niuckle lighter grew my creel, 
He swore we'd never part : 

The Iwatie rows, the boatie rows. 
The boatie rows fu' weel ; 
And muckle lighter is tlie load, 
When love bears up the creel. 

My kurtch I put upo* my head, 
And dress'd mysel' fu' braw ; 

1 true my heai t was douf an' wae, 
When Jamie gaed awa ; 

But wee! may the boatie row, 
And lucky be her part ; 
And lightsome be the lassie's care. 
That yields an honest heart. 

Wlien Sawney, Jock, an' Janetie, 

Are up and gotten lear, 

They'll help to gar the boatie row, 

And llgh.ten a' our care : 

The boatie I'ow;, the boatie rows, 

The boatie rows fu' weel ; 

And lightsome be her heart that bears 

The murlain, and t'ne creel. 

» 
And when wi' age we're worn down, 
And hirpling round the door. 
They'll low to keep us dry and warm, 
As we did them before : — 
Then weel may the boatie row. 
She wins the bairns bread ; 
And happy be the lot of a' 
That wish the boat to speed ! 



THE HAPPY MARRLAGE. 

Anothkb, out very pretty AnglO'Seottitk 
piece. 



• Cast.— The Abcrdjtnshire dialect, 
t An oiier basket. 



SONGS. 



Ill 



Mow West has my time been, what joys have I 

known, 
State wedlock's soft bondage made Jes»y tny 

own I 
So joyful my heart is, so easy my chain, 
That freedom is tasteless, and roving a pain. 

Thro' walks grown with woodbines, as often we 

stray, 
Around us our boys and girls frolic and play : 
How pleasing their sport is ! the wanton ones 

sec 
And borrow their looksfrom my Jessy and me. 

To try her sweet temper, oft times am I seen 
In revels all day with the nymphs on the green : 
Tho' painful my absence, my doubts she be- 
guiles, 
And meets me at night with complacence and 
smiles. 

"What tho* on her cheeks the rose loses its hue, 
Her wit and good humour bloom all the yeai' 

thro' ; 
Time stiU, as he flies, adds increase to her truth, 
And gives to her mind what he steals from her 

youth. 

Ye ihepherds so gay, who make love to ensnare, 
And cheat, with false vows, the too credulous 

fair; 
In March of true pleasure, how vainly you roam ! 
To hold it for life, you must find it at home. 



Unto the yoWes a mllkiti. Kind »ir, she gays, 
With a double and adieu to thee fair May. 
What if I gang alang \vi' thet, my ain pretty 
May, 
Wi' thy red rosy cheeks, and thy coal-black 
hair ; 
Wad I be aught the warse o' that, kind sir, the 
says. 
With a double and adieu to thee fair May. 
&c. &c. 



THE POSIE. 

Ix appears evident to me that Oswald com- 
posed lus JRoslin Castle on the modulation of 
this air. — In the second part of Oswald's, in the 
three first bars, he has either hit on a wonder- 
ful similarity to, or else he has entirely borrow- 
ed the three first bars of the old air ; and the 
close of both tunes is almost exactly the same. 
The old verses to which it was sung, when I 
took down the notes from a country girl's voice, 
Lad no great merib.— The following is a speci- 
tocn: 

Thzkx was a pretty May,* and a milkin she 
went; 
Wi* her red rosy cheeks, and her coal-black 
hair: 
Aad the has met a young man a comin o'er the 
bent, 
With a double and adieu to thee fair May. 

O where are ye goin, my ain pretty May, 
Wi' thy red rosy cheeks, and thy coal-black 



• Maid- 



THE POSIE. 

O LuvK will venture in, where it daur na weel 

be seen, 
O luve will venture in, where wisdom ance has 

been, 
But I will rion-n yon river rove, ' amang the 

wood sae green. 
And a' to pu' a posie to my ain dear May. 

The primrose I will pu', the firstling o' the year. 

And I will pu' the pink, tho emblem o' my dear. 

For she's the pink o' woman kind, and blooms 

without a peer ; 

And a' to be a posie to tny ain dear May. 

I'll pu' the budding ro38, when Phoebus peeps 
in view. 

For it's like a baumy kiss o' her sweet bonie 
mou ; 

The hyacinth's for constancy wi' its unchang- 
ing blue. 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair, 
And in her lovely bosom I'll place the lily there ; 
The daisy's for simplicity and unaffected air. 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May ; 

The hawthorn I will pu', wi' its locks o' siller 

g«ey, 
Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o' 

day, 
But the songster's nest within the bush I wifina 

tak away ; 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May 

The woodbine I will pu*, when the e'ning «ta.' 

is near, 
And the diamond draps o' dew shall be her e'er 

sae clear ; 
The violet's for modesty which weel she fa's to 

wear. 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

I'll tie the posie round wi' the silken band o 

luve, 
And I'll place it in her breast, and I'll swear bf 

a' above. 
That to my latest draught o' life the band shal. 

ne'er remuve. 
And this v.'iU be a posie to my ain dear May 



112 



BURNS' WORKS. 



MARY'S DREAM. 



The Mary here alluded to is generally sup- 
p«o- to be Miss Mary Macghie, daughter to 
th« ^^aird of Airds, in Galloway. The poet 
was a Mr. Alexander Lowe, who likewise 
wrote another beautiful song, called Pompey's 
Ghost. — I have seen a poetic epistle from him 
in North America, where he now is, or lately 
was, to a lady in Scotland. — By the strain of 
the verses, it appeared that they allude to some 
love disappointment. 

The moon had climb'd the highest hill. 

Which rises o'er the source of Dee, 
And fronj the eastern suramet shed 

Her silver light on tow'r and tree : 
When Mary laid her down to sleep, 

Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea ; 
When soft and low a voice was heard, 

Saying, Mary, weep no more for me. 

She from her pillow gently rais'd 

Her head to ask, who there might be ; 

She saw young Sandy shiv'ring stand, 
With visage pale and hollow eye ; 

' O Mary, dear, cold is my clay, 
' It lies beneath a stormy sea ; 

' Far, far from thee, I sleep in death ; ' 
' So, Mary, weep no more for me. 

• Three stormy nights and stormy days 

* We toss'd upon the raging main ; 

' And long we strove our bark to save, 

* But all our striving was in vain. 

' E'en then when horror chill'd my blood, 
' My heart was fiU'd with love for thee : 

♦ The storm is past, and I at rest ; 

' So, Mary, weep no more for me. 

' maiden dear, thyself prepare, 

' We soon shall meet upon that shore, 
♦Where love is free from doubt and care, 

' And thou and I shall part no more !' 
Loud crow'd the cock, the shadows fled, 

No more of Sandy could she see ; 
But soft the passing spirit said, 

" Sweet Mary, weep no more forme !" 



THE JOLLY BEGGAR. 

Said to have been composed oy King James 
v., on a frolic of his own. 

There was a jolly beggar, ar.d a begging he 

was boun', 
And he took up his quarters into a land'art 
town, 
And well gang nae mair a roving, 

Sae late into the night. 
And we'll gang nae mair a roving, bogs, 
JLet the moun shine ne'er sae bright I 



He wad neither ly in bain, nor yet Vtd b« in 

byre, 
But in ahint the ha' door, or else afore tha fire, 
And we'll gang nae mair, i[C 

The beggar's bed was made at e'en wi' good 

clean straw and hay, 
And in ahint the ha' door, and there the beggar 

lay. 

And we'll gang nae mair, ife. 

Up raise the good man's dochter, and for to bar 

the door. 
And there she saw the beggar standin i' the 

floor, 

And well gang nae mair, tfc 

He took the lassie in his arms, and to the bed 

he ran, 
O hooly, hooly wi* me, sir, ye'll waken our 

goodman, 

And we'll gang nae mair, {"c. 

The beggar was a cunnin loon, and ne'er a 

word he spake, 
Until he got his turn done, syne he began to 

crack. 

And we'll gang nae mair, i^c. 

Is there ony dogs into this town ? maiden, tell 

me true. 
And what wad ye do wi* them, my hinny and 

my dow ? 

And we'll gang nae mair, §*c. 

They'll rive a' my mealpocks, and do me meikle 
wrang, 

dool for the doing o't ! are ye the puir man ? 

And we'll gang nae mair, S^c. 

Then she took up the mealpocks and flaog them 

o'er the wa'. 
The deil gae wi' the mealpocks, my maidenhead 

and a'. 

And we'll gang nae mair, $v. 

1 took ye for some gentleman, at leait the laird 

of Brodie ; 
dool for the doing o't ! are ye the puir bodie ? 
AtuI we'll gang nae mair, jpe. 

He took the lassie in his arms, and gae her kissea 

three, 
And four-and-twenty hunder merk to pay the 

nuricc-fi'i', 

And we'll gang nae maii; S^c. 

He took a horn frae his side, and blew baith 
luiid and shrill. 

And four-and-twenty belted knights came skip- 
ping o't-r the hill, 

Ayid we'll gang nae maitt ^C% 



SONGS. 



113 



kbA he took out Kis little knife, loot a' his dud- 
dies fa*, 

And he was the brawest gentleman that was 
amang them a*. 

And ive'U gang nae mair, ^c. 

The beg£jar was a diver loon, and he lap shoul- 
der height, 
O ay for sicken qunrtei-s as I gat yesternight ! 
A./id we'll gang nae mair, Sfc. 



THE MAID THAT TENDS THE GOATS. 

BY MR. DUDGEON. 

This Dudgeon is a resnectable farmer's son 
in Berwickshire. 

Up amang yon (•lifFy rocks 

Sweetly riiig< the ri^iii;;; eclii), 
To the m.iid that teniis the gi>ats. 
Lilting o'er her ndtive notes. 

Hark ! she sink's, '• Young S inrly's kind, 
An' he's prinnised iiv to loe nic ; 

Here'> a brooch I iie'^'i- vhill tine 
Till he's fairly m.irricd to nie : 
Drive away ye drone Time, 
An' bring al)uut our hiiilal day. 

" Sandy licrds a flnck o' sheep. 

Aften does he bkuv the whistle, 
In a strain sae saftly swe.et, 
Lammies list'ning danrna bleat. 

He's as fleet's the mountain roe, 
Hardy as the highland heather, 

Wading through the winter snow, 
Keeping ay his flock together ; 
But a plaid, wi' bare houghs, 
He braves the bleakest norlin blast* 

" Brawly he can dance and sing 

Canty glee or highland cronach ; 
Nane can ever match his fling. 
At a reel, or round a ring ; 

Wightly can he wield a rung. 
In a brawl he's ay the bangster : 

A' his praise can ne'er be sung 
By the langest-winded sangster. 
Sangs that sing o' Sandy 
Come short, though they were e'er sae lang." 



TARRY WOO. 

This is a very pretty song ; but I fancy that 
the firbt half stanza, as well as the tune itself, 
are much older than the rest of the word^. 

Tarry woo, tarry woo, 
Tarry woo is ill to spin ; 
Cord it well, card it well, 
Qui u well ere ye begin. 



When 'tis carded, row'd and aptlB, 
Then the work is haflens done ; 
But when woven, drest and cleaOt 
It may be cleading for a queen. 

Sing, my bonny harmless sheep, 
That feed upon the mountain's steep, 
Bleating sweetly as ye go. 
Thro' the winter's frost and snow ; 
Hart, and hvnd, and fallow-deer, 
No be haff so useful are : 
Frae kings to him that bads the plow, 
Are all oblig'd to tarry woo. 

Up, ye shepherds, dance and skip. 
O'er the hills and vallies trip. 
Sing up the praise of tairy woo, 
Sing the flocks that bear it ton ; 
Hiimiess creatures without blame, 
That dead the back, and cram the warae, 
Keep us warm and heaity fou ; 
Lccse me on the tarry woo. 

Ilinv happy is the shepherd's life, 
Far fiae cuuits, and free of strife. 
While the gimmeis ble.it and bae. 
And the Jam; kins answer niae : 
No such music to his ear ; — 
Of thief or fox he has no fear ; 
."^tiiidy Kent and Colly true, 
Will defend the tarry woo. 

He lives content, and envies none ; 
Not even a monarch on his throne, 
Tho' he the royal sceptre sways, 
H;is not sweeter holidays. 
Who'd be a king, can ony tell. 
When a shepherd sings sae well ? 
Sings sae well, and pays his due, 
With honest heart and tarry woo. 



THE COLLIER'S BONNIE LASSIE. 

The first half stanza is much older than the 
days of Ramsay. — The old words began thus :— 

The collier has a dochter, and, 0, she's won- 
der bonnie ! 

A laird he was that sought her, rich baith in 
lands and money. 

She wad na hae a laird, nor wad she be a lady • 

But she wad hae a collier, the color o' her daddie. 



The collier has a oaughter. 

And O she's wonder bonny ; 
A laird he was that sought her. 

Rich baith in lands and money i 
The tutors watch'd the motion 

Of this young honest lover ; 
But love is like the ocean ; 

Wlia can its depth discover ? 



35 



m 

tte h»A ttie yl i.6 )i>\ei&e yit 

And waa by a' respected ; 
His airs sat round him easy, 

Genteel, but unaffected. 
The collier's bonnie lassie, 

Fair as the new-blown lilie, 
Ay sweet, and never saucy, 

Secur'd the heart of Willie. 

He lov'd beyond expression 

The charms that were about her, 
And panted for possession. 

His life was dull without her. 
After mature resolving. 

Close to his breast he held her 
In saftest flames dissolving. 

He tenderly thus tell'd her : 

My bonny collier's daughter. 

Let naething discompose ye, 
'Tis no your scanty tocher 

Shall ever gar mc lose ye : 
For I have gear in plenty, 

And love says, "Tis my duty 
To ware what heav'n has lent me 

Upon your wit and beauty. 



MY AIN KIND DEARIE— O. 

Th£ old words of this song are omitted here, 
though much more beautiful than these insert- 
ed ; which were mostly composed by poor Fer- 
gusson, in one of his merry humours. — Tiie old 
words began thus : — ■ 

I'll rowe thee o'er the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie, O, 
I'll rowe thee o'er the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie, O, 
Altho' the night were ne'er sae wat, 

And I were ne'er sae weary, (), 
I'll rowe thee o'er the lea-rig. 

My ain kind dearie, O — 



BURNS' WORKS. 

DOWN TKfi BUftN, DAVIfi. 

1 have beeti informed, that the tunc of Donifi 
the Burn, JJavte, was the coni])o«ition of David 
Maigh, keeper of the blood sliiugh hounds, be- 
longing to the Laird of Ridtlel, in Twecildale. 

Whf.x trees did bud, and fields were green, 

And broom liloom'd fair to see ; 
When i\l:iry was complete (iftee-n, 

And love liugli'd in her e'e ; 
BIythe Davie's lillnks h<;r heart did move, 

To speik her mind thus free, 
Gang ihm-n the hum Davie, love, 

And I shall follow thee. 



Will ye gang o'er the lea-rig. 

My ain kind dearie, O ? 
And cuddle there sae kindlie. 

My ain kind dearie, O ? 
At thorny dike and birken-tree, 

We'll daff and ne'er be weary, O ; 
They'll scug ill een frae you and me, 

My ain kind dearie, O ! 

Nae herds, wl' kent or colly, there. 

Shall ever come to fear ye, O ; 
But lavrocks, whistling in the aii-, 

Shall woo, like me, their dearie, O. 
While others herd their lambs and yowes, 

And toil for warld's gear, my jo ; 
Upon the lea, my pleasure grows, 

Wi' thee my kind dearie, 0. 



Now Davie did each lad surpass. 

That ilwalt on y(m burn yide, 
Anil IMary was the bonniest hiss, 

•lust meet to be a bride ; 
Her cheeks were rosie, red and white. 

Her een were bonnie blue ; 
Her looks were like Aurora bright. 

Her lips like dropping dew. 

As down the burn they took their way, 
What tender tales they said ! 

His cheek to her's he aft did lay. 
And with her bosom play'd ; 



What pass'd, I guess, was harmless ploy, 

And naething sure unmeet ; 
For, ganging hame, I heard them say, 

They iik'il a walk sae sweet ; 
And that they af'ten should return. 

Sic pleasure to renew ; 
Quoth Mary, Love, T like the burn. 

And ay shall follow you.* 



BLINK O'ER THE BURN, SWEET 
BETTY. 

The old words, all that I remember, are,— 

Blink over the burn, sweet Betty, 

It is a cauld winter night ; 
It rains, it hails, it thunders. 

The moon she gies nae light : 
It's a' for the sake o' sweet Betty, 

That ever I tint my way ; 
Sweet, let me lie beyond thee, 

Untd it be break o' day. — 

O, Betty will bake my bread. 

And Betty will brew my ale. 
And Betty will be my love, 

AVlien I come over the dale : 



• The last four lines of the third stanza, being 
somewhat objectionable in point of delicacy, arc omit- 
ted. Hums altered these lines. Had ."lis alteration 
been attended with his usual succesf, it would Jiav* 
been adopted. 



SONGS. 



115 



Blink over tlie Lilrri, s\Vet't JBcHV) 
Blink over tlie tmrn to me, 

And wliile I liae lite, dear lassie, 
Mv ain sweet Bettv thou's bo. — » 



THERE'S NAE LUCK ABOUT THE 
HOUSE. 

This is one of tlie most beautiful sons^s in 
tlie Scots, ov any other language. — The two 
lines, 

And will I see Lis face again ! 
And will I bear him speak ! 

as well as the two precedincj ones, are unequall- 
I'd almost by any thing I ever heard or read : 
and the lines, 

Tbe present moment is our ain, 
The neist we never saw — 

are worthy of the first poet. — It is long poste- 
rior to Ramsay's days. — About the year J 771, 
or 72, it came first on the streets as a ballarl ; 
and I suppose the composition of the song was 
not much anterior to that period.* 

And are ye sure the news is true ? 
And are ye sure he's weel V 
Is this a time to talk o' wark ? 
Ye jads, lay by your wheel ! 
Is this a time to talk of w.uk. 
When Colin' s at the door? 
Gio me my cloak! I'll to the quay. 
And see him come ashore. 

For there's nae luck about the house. 

There's nae luck ava ; 

There's little pleasure in the house, 

When our fjudcman's awa. 

Rise up, aod mak a clean fire-side, 

Put on the rauckle pat ; 

Gie little Kate her cotton gown, 

And Jock his Sunday's coat ; 

And mak their shoon as black as shies, 

Their hose as white as snaw ; 

It's a' to please my ain gudenian. 

He likes to see them braw. 

For there's nae luck, §-c. 

There is twa hens upon the b-auk, 

'Sbeen fed this month and mair ; 

Mak haste and thraw their necks about. 

That Colin weel may fare ; 

And spread the table neat and clean, 

Gar ilka thing look braw ; 

It's a for love of my gudeman,— 

For he's been long awa. 

For there's nae luck, §*c. 



gie roe doi^H aiy blgoiiets, 
My hishop-sBtin gown ; 

For I maun tell the bailie's wife 

That Colin's come to town ; 

Jly Sunday's shoon they maun gae on, 

My hose o' pearl blue, 

Its a' to please my ain gudeman, 

I'or he's haith leel and true. 

For there's nae luck, SfC. , 

Sae true's his words, sae smooth's his speech^ 

His breath like caller air. 

His very foot has music in't, 

When he comes up the stair : 

And will I see his face again ! 

And will I hear him speak ! 

I'm dowriirht dizzy with the thought. 

In troth I'm like to greet ! 

For there's nae luck, Sfc. 

Tlio cnuld blasts of the winter wind. 

That thrilled thro' my heart. 

They're a' blaun by ; I hae him safe, 

'Till death we'll never part ; 

But what puts parting iu my head ? 

Ic may be far awa ; 

The present nioiuent is our ain, 

The neist we never saw ! 

For there's nae luck, Sfc. 

Since Colin's well, I'm well content, 

1 hai' nae mair to crave ; 

Cdiild I hut live to mak him blest, 

I'm blest almoii the lave; 

And will I see his face again ! 

And will 1 hear him speak ! 

I'm downriijht dizzy with the though 

In troth 1 'm like to greet ! 



• It is now ascertained Uiat Meilde, the translator 
9f Ciunoens, was the author of this song, 



.TOIIN HAY'S BONNIE LASSIE. 

Johv Hay's Bonnie Lassie was daughter of 
John Hay, Earl, or Marquis of Tweeddale, and 
late Countess Dowager of Roxburgh. — She died 
at Broomlands, near Kelso, some time between 
the years 1720 and 1740. 

Br smooth winding Tay a swain was reclining, 
Aft cry'd he, Oh hey ! maun I still live pining 
Mysel thus away, and daurna discove- 
To my bounie Hay that I am her lover ! 

Nae mair it will hide, the flame waxes stronger ; 
If she's not my bride, my days are nae langer : 
Then I'll take a heart, and try at a venture, 
Maybe, ere we part, my vows may content her. 

She's fresh as the Spring, and sweet as Aurora, 
When birds mount and sing, bidding day a good- 
morrow ; 
The swaird of the mead, enamell'd xr'i' daisies, 
Looks wither'd and dead when twin'd of her 
prac<»s, 



116 



BURNS* WORKS. 



But it' sTie appeal- wKcre verdure invites herj 
The fountains run clear, and flowers smell the 

sweeter ; 
'Tig heaven to be by when her wit is a-flowing, 
Her smiles and bright eyes set my spirits a-glow- 

ing. 

The mair that I gaze, the deeper I'm wounded, 
Struck dumb wi' amaze, my mind is confounded ; 
I'm a' in a fire, dear maid, to caress ye, 
For a' my desire is Hay's bonnie lassie. 



THE BONNIE BRUCKET LASSIE. 

The idea of this song is to me very original : 
the two first lines are all of it that is old. The 
rest of the song, as well as those songs in the 
Museum marked T, are the works of an obscure, 
tippling, but extraordinary body of the name of 
Tytler, commonly known by the name of Jial- 
loon Tytler, from his having projected a balloon : 
A mortal, who, though he drudges about Edin- 
burgh as a common printer, with leaky shoes, a 
sky-lighted hat, and knee-buckles as unlike as 
George-by-the-Grace-of-God, and Solomon-the 
Son-of-David ; yet that same unknown drunken 
mortal is author and compiler of three-fourths 
Elliot's pompous Encyclopedia Britannica, which 
he composed at half a guinea a week ! * 

The bonnie brucket lassie 

She's blue beneath the e'en ; 
She was the fairest lassie 

That danced on the green : 
A lad he loo'd her dearly. 

She did his love return ; 
But he his vows has broken, 

And left her for to mourn. 

" My shape," she says, " was handsome, 

My face was fair and clean ; 
But now I'm bonnie brucket, 

And blue beneath the e'en : 
My eyes were bright and sparkling. 

Before that they turn'd blue ; 
But now they're dull with weeping, 

And a', my love, for you. 

" My person it was comely. 

My shape, they said, was neat ; 
But now I am quite chang'd, 

My stays they winna meet ; 
A' night I sleeped soundly, 

My mind was never sad ; 
But now my rest is broken, 

Wi' thinking o' my lad. 

" O could I live in darkness, 
Or hide me in the sea. 



Since my love is unfaithful, 

And has forsaken me ! 
No other love I suffer'd 

Within my breast to dwell j 
In nought I have offended. 

But loving him too well." 

Her lover heard her mourning, 

As by he chanc'd to pass, 
And press'd unto his bosom 

The lovely brucket lass : 
" My dear," he said, " cease grieving, 

Since that your love's sae true, 
My bonnie brucket lassie 

I'll faithful prove to you." 



* Balloon Tytler, is here referxed to. 



SAE MERRY AS WE TWA HA'E BEEN. 

This song is beautiful. — The chorus in par- 
ticular is truly pathetic. — I never could learn 

any thing of its author. 

A LASS that was laden with care 
Sat heavily under yon thorn ; 
I listen'd awhile for to hear. 

When thus she began for to mourn : 
Whene'er my dear shepherd was there. 

The birds did melodiously sing, 
And cold nipping winter did wear 
A face that resembled the spring. 
iS'ae merry as we twa hae been, 
Sae merry as we twa hae been. 
My heart it is like for to break. 
When I think on the days we hae seen. 

Our flocks feeding close by his side. 

He gently pressing my hand, 
I view'd the wide world in its pride, 

And laugh'd at the pomp of command ! 
My dear, he would oft to me say, 

Wliat makes you hard-hearted to me ? 
Oh ! why do you thus turn away 

From him who is dying for thee ? 
Sae merry, Sfc. 

But now he is far from my sight, 

Perhaps a deceiver may prove. 
Which makes me lament day and night, 

That ever I granted my love. 
At eve, when the rest of the folk 

Were merrily seated to spin, 
I set myself under an oak, 

And heavily sighed for him. 
Sae merry, Sfc. 



THE BUSH ABOON TRAQUAIR. 

This is another beautiful song ef Mr. Craw* 
ford's composition. In the neighbourhood of 
Traquair, tradition still shews the old " Bush ;" 
which, when I saw it in the yew 1787, wm 



SONGS. 



117 



composed of eight or nine ragged birches. The 
Earl of Traquair has planted a clump of trees 
near by, which he calls " The New Bush." 

Hear me, ye nymphs, and every swain, 

I'll tell how Peggy grieves me ; 
Tho' thus I languish and complain, 

Alas ! she no'er believes me. 
My vows and sighs, like silent air, 

Upheeded never move her ; 
The bonnie bush aboon Traquair, 

Was where I first did love her. 

That day she smil'd and made me glad, 

No maid seem'd ever kinder ; 
I thought myself the luckiest lad. 

So sweetly there to find her. 
I try'd to sooth my am'rous flame, 

In words that I thought tender ; 
If more there pass'd, I'm not to blame, 

I meant not to offend her. 

Yet now she scornful flees the plain. 

The fields we then frequented ; 
If e'er we meet, she shews disdain. 

She looks as ne'er acquainted. 
The bounie bush bloom'd fair in May, 

Its sweets I'll ay remember ; 
But now her frowns make it decay, 

It fades as in December. 

Ye rural pow'rs, who hear my strains, 

Why thus should Peggy grieve me ? 
Oh ! make her partner in my pains, 

Then let her smiles relieve me : 
If not, my love will turn despair, 

My passion no more tender ; 
I'll leave the bush aboon Traquair, 

To lonely wilds I'll wander. 



CROMLET'S LILT. 

" In the latter end of the 16th century, the 
Chisholms were proprietors of the estate of 
Cromlecks (now possessed by the Drummonds). 
The eldest son of that family was very much 
attached to a daughter of Sterling of Ardoch, 
commonly known by the name of Fair Helen 
of Ardoch. 

•" At that time the opportunities of meeting 
betwixt the sexes were more rare, consequently 
more sought after than now ; and the Scottish i 
ladies, far from priding themselves on extensive 
literature, were thought sufficiently book-learn- 
ed if they could make out the Scriptures in their 
mother tongue. Writing was entirely out of 
the line of female education : At that period 
the most of our young men of family sought a 
fortune, or found a grave, in France. Crom- 
lus, when he went abroad to the war, was o- 
bliged to leave the management of his corres- 
pondence with bis mistress to a lay brother of 



the monastery of Dumblain, in the inuiifediate 
neighbourhood of Croraleck, and near Aidocli. 
This man, unfortunately, was deeply sensible of 
Helen's charms. He artfully prepossesseil her 
with stories to the disadvantage of Cromlus j 
and by misinterpreting or keeping up the let- 
ters and messages intrusted to his cire, he en- 
tirely irritated both. All connection was broken 
off betwixt them : Helen was inconsolable, and 
Cromlus has left behind him, in the ballad call- 
ed Cromlet's Lilt, a proof of the elegance of his 
genius, as well as the steadiness of his love. 

" When the artful monk thought time had 
sufficieatly softened Helen's sorrow, he proposed 
himself as a lover : Helen was obdurate : but 
at last, overcome by the persuasions of her 
brother with whom she lived, and who, having 
a family of thirty-one children, was probably 
very well pleased to get her off his hands, she 
submitted, rather than consented to the cere- 
mony ; but there her compliance ended ; and, 
when forcibly put into bed, she started quite 
frantic from it, screaming out, that after three 
gentle taps on the wainscoat, at the bed head, 
she heard Cromlus's voice, crying, Helen, He- 
len, mind me,* Cromlus soon after coming 
home, the treachery of the confidant was dis- 
covered, — her marriage disannulled,— and He- 
len became lady Cromlecks." 

N. B. Marg. Murray, mother to these thirty- 
one children, was daughter to Murray of Strewn, 
one of the seventeen sons of Tullybardine, and 
whose youngest son, commonly called the Tutor 
of Ardoch, died in the year 1715, aged 111 
years. 

Since all thy vows, false maid, 
Are blown to air, 

And my poor heart betray'd 

To sad despair^ 

Into some wilderness, 

My grief I will express. 

And thy hard-heartedness, 
O cruel fair. 

Have I not graven our loves 

On every tree 
In yonder spreading groves, 

Tho' false thou be : 
' Was not a solemn oath 
Plighted betwixt us both, 
Thou thy faith, I my troth, 

Constant to be ? 

Some gloomy place Til find. 

Some doleful shade, 

Where neither sun nor wind 

E'er entrance had : 

Into that hollow cave. 

There will I sigh and rave. 

Because thou dost behave 

So faithlessly. 



• Remember me. 



118 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Wild fruit stall be my meat, 

I'll drink the spring, 

CSld earth shall be my seat : 
For covering 

I'll have the starry sky 

My head to canopy, - 

Until my soul on hy 

Shall spread its wing. 

1*11 have no funeral fire, 

Nor tears for me : 

No grave do I desire. 

Nor obsequies : 

The courteous Red-breast he 

With leaves will cover me> 

And sing my elegy 

With doleful voice. 

And when a ghost I am, 

I'll visit thee, 

O thou deceitful dame, » 

Whose cruelty 

Has kill'd the kindest heart 

That e'er felt Cupid's dart, 

And never can desert 

From loving thee. 



MY DEARIE, IF THOU DIE. 

Amoihek beautiful song of Crawford's. 

Love never more shall give me pain. 

My fancy's fix'd on thee. 
Nor ever maid my heart shall gain, 

My Peggy, if thou die. 
Thy beauty doth such pleasure give. 

Thy love's so true to me. 
Without thee I cau never live, 

My dearie, if thou die. 
-( 

If fate shall tear thee from my breast, 

How shall I lonely stray ! 
In dreary dreams the night I'll waste, 

In sighs, the silent day. 
I ne'er can so much virtue find. 

Nor such perfection see ; 
Then I'll renounce all woman kind. 

My Peggy, after thee. 

No new-blown beauty fires my heart, 

With Cupid's raving rage ; 
But thine, which can such sweets impart, 

Must all the world engage. 
'Twas this, that like the morning sun, 

Gave joy and life to me ; 
And when its destin'd day is done, 

With Peggy let me die. 

Ye powers that smile on virtuous love, 

And in such pleasure share ; 
You who its faithful flames approve. 

With pity view the fair ; 



Restore my Peggy's wonted charms. 
Those charms so dear to me ! 

Oh ! never rob them from these arms ; 
I'm lost if P^gy die. 



SHE ROSE AND LET ME IN. 

The old set of this song, which is still to be 
found in printed collections, is much prettier 
than this ; but somebody, I believe it was Ram- 
say, took it into his head to clear it of some 
seeming indelicacies, and made it at oncu more 
chaste and more dull. 

The night her silent sable wore, 

And gloomy were the skies ; 
Of Rlitt'ring stare appcar'd no more 

Than those in Nelly's eyes. 
When at her father's yate I knock'd. 

Where I had often been, 
She, shi'ouded only with her smock, 

Arose and loot me in. 

Fast lock'd within hcr-close embrace, 

She trembling stood asham'd ; 
Her swelling breast, and glowing face. 

And ev'ry touch inflara'd. 
My eager passion I obey'd, 

Resolv'd the fort to win ; 
And her fond heart was soon betrav'd 

To yield and let me in. 

Then, then, beyond expressing. 

Transporting was the joy ; 
I knew no greater blessing. 

So bJess'd a man was I. 
And she, all ravish 'd with delight. 

Bid me oft come again ; 
And kindly vow'd, that ev'ry night 

She'd rise and let me in. 

But ah I at last she prov'd with bairn. 

And sighing sat and dull. 
And I that was as much concern'd, 

Look'd e'en just like a fool. 
Her lovely eyes with tears ran o'er. 

Repenting her rash sin : 
She sigh'd, and curs'd the fatal hour 

That e'er she loot me in. 

But who cou'd cruelly deceive. 

Or from such beauty part ? 
I lov'd her so, I could not leave 

The charmer of my heart ; 
But wedded, and conceal'd our crime ; 

Thus all was well again. 
And now she thanks the happy time 

That e'er she loot me in. 



SONGS. 



lid 



GO TO THE EWE-BUGHTS. MARION. 

I AM not sure if this old and cbarming air be 
of the South, as is commonly said, or of the 
North of Scotland— There is a song apparently 
as ancient as Ewe-Buijhts, Marion, wliich 
sini;s tu the same tune, and is evidently of the 
North. — It begins thus : — 

The Lord o' Gordon had three docbters, 

iUary, I^Iargct, and Jean, 
They wad na stay at honnie Castle Gordon, 

Jiut ixwix to Aberdeen. 



Wii.f, ye go to tbe cvc-bugbts, ]\Iarlon, 

And woar in the slicep wi' me ; 
'llij sun shines sweet, my INIariun, 

i)Ut ii.ie ball' sae sweet as thee. 
O Marion'^ a liouny lass. 

And the blyth blinks in ber e'c ; 
And fain wad I uiarry i\larioii. 

Gin Marion wad marry uie. 

There's gowd in your garters, IVIarion, 

And silk on your white bause-baoe ; 
Fu' fain wad I kiss uiy 3Iarion, 

At e'en wheu 1 come hauie. 
Tiiere's hraw lads in Earnslaw, Marion, 

Wha gape, and glower with their e'e, 
At kiik when they see my IMarion ; 

But nane of them lo'es like me. 

I've nine milk-ewes, my INIarion, 

A cow and a brawny quey, 
I'll gie them a' tu my INIarion, 

Just on ber bridal-day : 
And ye's get a green sey apron, 

And waistcoat of the London brown, 
And wow ! but ye will be vap'ring, 

Wbene'er ye gang to the town. 

I'm young and stout, my ftlarion ; 

Nane dance like me on the green ; 
And gin ye forsake me, Marion, 

I'll e'en draw up wi' Jean : 
Sae put on your jiearlins, Marion, 

And kyrtle of the cramasie ; 
And soon as my chin bas uae hair on, 

I shall come west, and see ye. * 



bave one of tbe earliest copies of tlie song, and 
it has prefixed. 

Tune of Tarry Woo. — 

Of wbicb tune, a different set has insensibly 
varied into a different air. — To a Scots critic, 
the pathos of tbe line, 

" Tho' his back be at tbe wa'," 

— must be very striking — It needs not a Jaco- 
lute prejudice to be aifected with this song. The 
supposed author of " Lewis Gordon" was a Mr. 
Geddes, priest, at Sbenval, in the Ainzie. 

On \ send Lewie Gordon hame, 

And the lad I wluna name ; 

Tho' bis back be at tbe wa', 

Here's to him that's far awa ! 

Oil hon ! my Highland man, 
Oh, my honny Highland man ; 
Wed would I mij true-love ken, 
Amang ten thousand Highland men. 

Oh ! to see his tartan-trews, 
Bouuet blue, and laigb-heel'd shoes ; 
Philabeg aboon bis knee ; 
That's the lad that I'll gang wi' ! 
Oh hon, Sfc. 

The princely youth that I do mean. 
Is fitted for to be a king : 
On bis breast he wears a star ; 
You'd tak him for the God of War 
Oh hon, 8fC. 

Oh to see this Princely One, 
Seated on a royal throne ! 
Disasters a' would disappear, 
Then begins the Jub'lee year ! 

Oh hon, S^c. 



LEWIS GORDON.t 

This air is a proof how one of our Scots 
tunes comes to be composed out of another. I 



* This is maikcil in tlie Tia Table Miscellany as an 
old song wirii adililioiis.— /v</. 

\ " l.ord Lewis (iordou, youiir;fr brother to llie 
then Duke of Gordon, commanduil ,i >ictachiiient lor 
the Chevalier, and acquitted hiiiiM-if with great gal- 
lantry and judgmeuti He lUed iu IIH,'' 



OH ONO CHRIO. 

Dk. Blackloci: informed me that this song 
was composed on the infamous massacre of 
Glencoe. 

Oh ! was not I a weary wight ! 

Oh ! ono chri, oh ! ono chri — 
Maid, wife, and >vidow, in one night .' 
When in my soft and yielding arms, 
O ! when most I thought him free from harms. 
Even at the dead time of the night. 
'I'hey broke my bower, and slew a^y knight. 
With ae lock of his jet-black h»ir, 
I'll tie my heart for everniair ; 
Nae sly-tongued youth, or llatt'ring swain, 
Shall e'er untye this knot again ; 
Thine still, dear youth, that heart shall be, 
Nor pant for aught, save heaven and thee. 
(The chort^s repeated at the end of each line). 



120 



BURNS' WORKS. 



THE BEDS OF SWEET ROSES. 

This song, as far as I know, for the first 

time appears here in print When I was a boy, 

it was a very popular song in Ayrshire. I re- 
member to have heard those fanatics, the Buch- 
anites, sing some of their nonsensical rhymes, 
which they dignify with the name of hymns, to 
this air. — Bukns. 

As I was a walking 

One morning in May, 
The small birds sang sweetly, 

The flowers were bloomin' gay, 
Oh there I met my true love, 

As fresh as dawnin' day, 
Down among the beds of sweet roses. 

Fu* white was her barefoot. 

New bathed in the dew ; 
Whiter was her white hand, 

Her een were bonnie blue ; 
And kind were her whispers. 

And sweet was her moo, 
Down among the beds o' sweet roses. 

My father and my mother, 

I wot they told me true, 
That 1 liked ill to thrash. 

And I like worse to plough ; 
But I vow the maidens like me. 

For I kend the way to woo, 
Down among the beds of sweet roses. 



CORN RIGS ARE BONNY. 

Wy Patie is a lover gay, 

His mind is never muddy, 
His breath is sweeter than new hay, 

!Iis face is fair and ruiJdy. 
His shape is handsome, midille size ; 

He's stately in his wawking ; 
The shining of his een surprise ; 

'Tis heaven to hear him tawking, 

Lut night I met him on a bawk, 

Where yellow corn was growing, 
There mony a kindly word he spake, 

That set my heart a-glowing. 
He kisg'd, and vow'd he wad be mine, 

And loo'd me best of ony ; 
That gars me like to sing sinsyne, 

O corn rigs are bonny. 

Let maidens of % silly mind 

Refuse wliat miist they're wanting, 
Since we for yielding are design'd. 

We cha8t«ly should be granting ; 
Then I'll comply and marry Pate, 

And sync my cockernony 
He's free to touzle air or late, 

When com rigs are bonny. 



All the old words that ever I could meet with 
to this air were the following, which seem to 
have been an old chorus. 

O corn rigs and rye rigs, 

O corn rigs are bonnie ; 
And where'er you meet a bonnie lass. 

Preen up her cockernony. 



WAUKIN O' THE FAULD. 

There are two stanzas still sung to this tune, 
which I take to be the original song whence 
Ramsay composed his beautiful song of that 
nisme in the Gentle Shepherd It begins, 

will ye speak at our town. 

As ye come frae the fauld, &c. 

I regret that, as in many of our old songs, the 
delica<!y of this old fragment is not equal to its 
wit and humour. 

• My Peggy is a young thing. 
Just enter'd in her teens. 
Fair as the day, aud sweet as May, 
Fair as the day, and always gay. 
My Peggy is a young thing. 

And I'm not very auld, 
Yet well I like to meet her at 
The wauking of the fauld. 

Bly Peggy speaks sae sweetly. 
Whene'er we meet alane, 

1 wish iiae mair to lay my care, 

I wish nae mair of a' that's rare. 
My Peggy speaks sae swei'tly. 

To a' the luve I'm eauld ; 
But siie gars a' my spirits glow, 
At uauking of the fauld. 

My Peggy smiles sae kindly. 
Whene'er I whisper love, 
That I look down on a' the town. 
That I look down upon a crown. 
My Peggy smiles sae kindly, 

It makes me biythe and bauld, 
And naething gi'es me sic delight, 
As wauking of the fauld. 

My Peggy sings sae saftly, 

Wjen on my pipe 1 play; 
By a' the rest it is confest. 
By a' the rest, that she sings best. 
My Peggy sings sae saftly, 

And in her sangs are tald. 
With innocence, the wale of sense. 
At wauking of the fauld. 



SONGS. 



191 



MAGGIE LAUDER. 

This old Bong, so pregnant with Scottish 
naivieti and energy, is much relished by all 
ranks, notwithstanding its broad wit and pal- 
pable allusions. — Its language is a precious mo- 
del of imitation : sly, sprightly, and forcibly ex- 
pressive. — Maggie's tongue wags out the nick- 
names of Rob the Piper with all the careless 
lightsomeaess of unrestrained gaiety. 

Wha wad na be in love 

Wi' bonny Maggie Lauder ? 

A piper met her gaun to Fife, 

And speir'd what was't they ca'd her ; — 

Right scornfully she answer'd him. 

Begone, you ballanshaker ! 

Jog on your gate, you bladderskate, 

My name is Slaggie Lauder. 

Maggie, quo* he, and by my bags, 
I'm fidgin' fain to see thee ; 
Sit down by me, my bonny bird. 
In troth I winna steer thee : 
For I'm a piper to my trade, 
My name is Rob the Ranter ; 
The lasses loup as they were daft, 
When I blaw up my chanter. 

Piper, quo' Meg, hae ye your bags ? 

Or is your drone in order ? 

If ye be Rob, I've heard o' you. 

Live you upo' the border ? 

The lasses a', baith far and near. 

Have heard o' Rob the Ranter ; 

I'll shake my foot wi' right gude will, 

Gif you'll blaw up your chanter. 

Then to his bags he flew wi' speed, 

AI>out the drone he twisted ; 

Meg up and wallop'd o'er the green. 

For brawly could she frisk it. 

Weel done ! quo' he — play up ! quo' she ; 

Weel bobb'd ! quo' Rob the Ranter ; 

*Tis worth my while to play indeed, 

When I hae sic a dancer. 

Weel hae ye play'd your part, quo' Meg, 
Your cheeks are like the .crimson ; 
There's nane in Scotland plays sae weel. 
Since we lo.st Habbie Simpson. 
I've liv'd in Fife, baith maid and wife, 
These ten years and a qnarter ; 
Gin' ye should come to Enster Fair, 
Speir ye for Maggie Lauder. 



TRANENT MUIR. 

Tune—" Killicrankie." 

" Tranent-Muir" was composed by a Mr. 
Skirvin, a very worthy respectable farmer, near 
HaddingtOQ. I have heard the anecdote often, 



that Lieutenant Smith, whom he mentioni ia 
the ninth stanza, came to Haddington after tha 
publication of the song, and sent a challenge to 
Skirvin to meet him at Haddington, and an- 
swer for the unworthy manner in which he had 
noticed him in his song. " Gang awa back," 
said the honest farmer, " and tell Mr. Smith 
that I hae na leisure to come to Haddington ; 
but tell him to come here ; and I'll tak a look 
o' him ; and if I think I'm fit to fecht him, I'll 
fecht him ; and if no — I'll do as he did, — FU 
ritt atca" — 



The Chevalier, being void of fear, 

Did march up Birsle brae, man, 
And thro' Tranent, e'er he did stent. 

As fust as he could gae, man : 
While General Cope did taunt and mocki 

Wi' monv a loud huzza, man ; 
But e'er next morn proclaim'd the cock, 

We heard another craw, man. 

The brave Lochiel, as I heard tell, 

Led Camerons on in clouds, man ; 
The morning fair, and clear the air, 

They loos'd with devilish thuds, man : 
Down guns they threw, and swords they drew, 

And soon did chace them aif, man ; 
On Seaton-Crafts they buft their chafts, 

And gart them rin like daft, man. 

The bluff dragoons swore blood and 'cons, 

They'd make the rebels run, man ; 
And yet they flee when them they see, 

And winna fire a gun, man : 
They t\irn'd their back, the foot they bralce, 

Such terror seiz'd them a', man ; 
Some wet their cheeks, some fyl'd their bredu^ 

And some for fear did fa', man. 

The volunteers prick'd up their ears, 

And vow gin they were crouse, man ; 
But when the bairns saw't turn to earn'st, 

They were uot worth a louse, man ; 
Maist feck gade hame ; O fy for shame ! 

They'd better stay'd awa", man, 
Than \\^i' cockade to make parade, 

Aaii do nae good at a', man. 

Menteith the great,* when hersell sh — t, 

Un'warcs did ding him o'er, man ; 
Yet wad nae stand to bear a hand. 

But aff fou fast did scour, man ; 
O'er Soutra hill, e'er he stood still, 

Before he tasted meat, man : 
Troth he may brag of his swift nag, 

That bare him aif sae fleet, man. 



» The minister of Longfonnacus, a volunteer ; who, 
happening to come the night before the battle, upon » 



Highland gelding, easing nature at Preston, threw him 
over, and carried his gun as a trophy to Cope'g camp. 



36 



122 

Anil Siinpsoh * !;ecn, to clc.ir tlio ecu 

Of lubels far in wniujj, iu:in, 
Diit m-vcr .strive \vi' pistols five, 

Kut {r.illup'd witli the thiana;, niau : 
}Io tiirn'd liis hai-k, and in a crack 

Wa< cleanly oiit of sight, man ; 
And thought it best ; it was nae jest 

Wi' Highlanders to fight, man. 



'IMangst a' the gang iianc bade the bang 

Hut twa, and ane was tane, man ; 
Tor Campbell raile, but Myricf stiid, 

And sair he paid the kain,^ man ; 
Fell skeljis he got, was war than shot 

Frae the sharp-cilg'd claymore, man ; 
Frae many a spout came running out 

His reeking-het red gore, muu. 

But Gard'iicr y brave did still behave 

Like to a hero bright, man ; 
His courage true, like him were few, 

That still despised flight, man ; 
For king and laws, and country's cause, 

In honour's bed he lay, man ; 
His life, but uot his courage, fled, 

While he bad breath to draw, man. 

And Major Bowie, that worthy soul. 

Was brought down to the ground, man ; 
His horse being shot, it was his lot 

For to get mony a wound, man : 
Lieutenant Smith, of Irish birth, 

Frae whom he call'd for aid, man, 
Being full of dread, lap o'er his head. 

And wadna be gainsaid, man. 

He made sic haste, sac spur'd his beast, 

'Twas little there he saw, man ; 
To Berwick rade, and safely said, 

The Scots were rebels a', man ; 
But let that end, for well 'tis kend 

His use and wont to lie, man ; 
The Teague is naught, he never faught, 

When he had room' to flee, man. 



BURNS* WORKS. 



• Another volunteer Presbyterian minister, who 
said he would convince the rebels of their error by the 
dint of his pistols ; having, for that puroose, two in 
]iii pockets, two in his liolsters, and one in his belt. 

t Mr. Myrie was a student of j)hysie, from Jamaica ; 
he entered as a volunteer in Cope's army, and was 
miserably mangled by the broadsword. 

J (. c. He suffered severely in the cause. 

II James Gardiner, Colonel of a regiment of horse. 
'I his gentleman's conduct, however celebrated, does 
not seem to ha\e proceeded so much from the gene- 
rous ardour of a noble and heroic mind, as from a 
spirit of religious enthusiasm, and a bigoted reli;»nce 
oil the Presbyterian doctrine of predestination, which 
rendered it .'t niattLi i<{ pert'cct iiiilincience whether lie 
left the field or lem.iincd iii it. liemg deserted by his 
troiip, lie was killed by a Highlander, with a Lochabcr 
axe. 

Colonel Gardiner having, when a gay young man, 
at >'aris, mode an assignation with a rady, was, a» he 
jireteiulcd, not only deferred from keeping his ap- 
jiointmcnt, but thoroughly icrlaiiiied from all such 
thoughts HI futuie, by an appiuitiou. See hi* Life by 
Doddridge, 



And Caildell drcst, amaiig the rest. 

With gun and good claymore, man, 
On gelding grey he rode that way. 

With pistols set before, man ; 
The cause was good, he'd spend his blood, 

Before that he would yield, man ; 
But the night before he left the cor. 

And never fac'd the field, man. 

But g.illant Roger, like a soger, 

Stood and bravely fought, man ; 
I'm wae to tell, at last he fell, 

But mac down wi' him brought, man : 
.■Vt point of death, wi' his last breath, 

(Some standing round in ring, man), 
Ou's back lying flat, he wav'd his hat. 

And cry'd, God save the king, man. 

Some Highland rogues, like hungry dogs, 

Neglecting to pursue, man. 
About they fac'd, and in great haste 

Upon the booty flew, man ; 
And they, as gain, for all their pain. 

Are deck'd wi spoils of war, man ; 
Fow bald can tell how her uaiosell 

Was ne'er sae pra before, man. 

At the thorn-tree, which you may see 

Bewest the meadow-mill, man ; 
There mony slain lay on the plain, 

The clans pursuing still, man. 
Sic unco' hacks, and deadly whacks, 

I never saw the like, man ; 
Lost hands and heads cost them their deads,' 

That tell near Preston-dyke, mau. 

That afternoon, when a' was done, 

I gaed to see the fray, man ; 
But had I wist what aftei past, 

I'd better staid away, man : 
On Seaton sands, wi' nimble hands, 

They pick'd my pockets bare, man; 
But I wish ne'er to drie sic fear. 

For a' the sum and mair, man. 



STREPHON AND LYDIA. 

Tune — " The Gordon's had the Guiding o't." 

The following account of this song I had 
from Dr. Blacklock. 

The Strephou and I.jdia mentioned in the 
song were perhaps the loveliest couple of their 
time. The gentleman was cominouly known 
by the name of Beau Gibson. The lady was 
the Gentle Jean, celebrated somewhere in Mi-. 
Hamilton of Bangour's poems Having fre- 
quently met at public places, they had formed 
a reciprocal attachment, which their friends 
thought dangerous, as their rciiources were by 
no means adeipiate to their tastes and habits of 
life. To dude the bad consequences of such a 
connection, Strephou was sent abroad with u 



SONGS. 



12J 



couimibsion, ami perlbLcd in Admiral V'einun's 
expedition to Carthugena. 

The author of the song was William Wallace, 
Esq. of Cairnliill, in Ayrshire. — Bukns. 

Ai-T. lovely on the suUry beach, 

Expiring Strephon lay, 
No hand the cordial draught to rtach, 

Nor chear the giooray way. 
Ill-fated youth ! no parent nis;h, 

To catch thy fleeting breath. 
No bride, to fix thy swimming eye, 

Or smooth the face of death. 

F.U- distant from the mournful scene. 

Thy parents' sit at ease. 
Thy Lydia rifles all the plain, 

And all the spring to please. 
Ill-fated youth ! by fault of friend. 

Not force of foe depress'd, 
Thou fall'st, alas ! thyself, thy kind. 

Thy country, unredress'd ' 



I'M O'ER YOUNG TO MARRY YET. 

The cliorus of this song is old. — The rest of 
it) such as it is, is mine — Burns. 

I'm o'er young, I'm o'er young, 
I'm o'er young to marry yet ; 
I'm o'er yoimg, 'twad be a sin 
To take me frae my mammy yet. 

There is a stray, characteristic verse, which 
ought to be restored. 

My minnie coft me a new gown, 
The kirk maun hae the gracing o't ; 

Ware I to lie wi' you, kind Sir, 
I'm feared ye'd spoil the lacing o't. 
I'm o'er young, &c. 



MY JO, JANET. 

Johnson, the publisher, with a foolish deli- 
cacy, refused to insert the last stanza of this 
humorous ballad. — Burns. 

Sweet Sir, for your conrtesic, 

When ye come by the liais then. 
For the luve ye liear to me, 

Buy me a keeking-gla^s, then 

Keek into the draw-welt, 

Janet, Janet ; 
^nd there ye'll see your bonny sell, 
My Jo, Janet. 

Keeking in the draw-well cleai', 
What if I should fa' in, 



Syne a' my kin wili say and swear, 

I diown'd mysell tor sin. — 
Hand the better be the brae, 

Janet, Janet, 
Hand the better be the brae. 

My Jo, Janet. 

Good Sir, for your courtesie, 

C-imiing through Aberdeen, then. 
For the luve ye bear to me, 

Buy me a pair of sheen, then.— 
Clout the auld, the nt;w are dear, 

Janet, Janet ; 
./(• ])air may gain ye hay a year. 
My Jo, Janet. 

Hut wliiit if dancing on the green, 

And skipping like a maukin. 
If tliey sluiuld see my clouted shoon, 

Of me they will be taukin'. — 
Dunce ay laigh, and late at e'en, 

Janet, Janet ; 
Syne a' their fauts will ru> be seen, 
My Jo, Janet. 

Kind Sir, for your courtesie. 

When )e gae to the Cross, then, 
P'or the hive ye bear to me. 

Buy mo a pacing-horse, then. — 
face xpo' your spinning-wheel, 
Janet, Janet ; 
Pace iipo' your spinning-wheel. 
My Jo, Janet. 

My spinning-wheel is auld and stiff. 

The rock o't winna stand, Sir, 
To keep the temper-pin in tift". 

Employs right aft my hand. Sir.— 
Mak the best o't that ye can, 

Janet, Janet ; 
But like it never wale a man. 

My Jo, Janet. 



GUDE YILL COPIES, AND GUDE 
YILL GOES, 

This song sings to the tune called The bot~ 
torn of the punch bowl, of which a verv good 
copy may be found in M' GibborCs Collection,— » 

BUHNS. 

Tunc—" The Happy Fanner." 

O gitde yill comes, and gude yill goes, 
(jude yill gars me sell my hose. 
Sell my hose, and paion my shoon, 
Fur glide yill keeps my heart aboon. 

I HAD sax owsen in a pleugh. 
And thev drew teugh and weel eneugh ; 
I diank them a' ane by ane. 
For gude yill keeps my heart aboon. 
Gude yill, Sfc. 



I had forty shillin in a clout, 
Gud« yill gait luu pyk« tbem out ; 



124 



BURNS* WORKS. 



That gear should nioule I tliought a sin, 
Glide yill keeps my heart aboon. 
Gude yill, ^c. 

The meikle pot upon my back, 
Unto the yill-housc I did pack ; 
It melted a' wi' the heat o' the moon, 
Gude yill keeps my heart aboon. 
Gude yUl, Sfc. 

Gude yill hands me bare and busy, 
Gars me nioop wi' the servant hizzie, 
Stand in the kirk when I hae done, 
Gude yill keeps my heart aboon. • 
Gude yill, Sfc. 

I wish their fa' may be a gallows, 
Winna gie gude yill to gude fellows, 
And keep a soup 'till the afternoon, 
Gude yill keeps my heart aboon. 

O gude yill comes, and gude yill goes, 
Gude yill gars me sell my hose, 
Sell my hose, and pawn my shoon, 
Gude yill keeps my heart aboon. 



WERE NA JIY HEART LIGHT I WAD 
DIE. 

Lord Hailes, in the notes to his collection of 
ancient Scots poems, says that this song was the 
composition of a Lady Grissel Baillie, daughter 
of the first Earl of JIarchmint, and wife of 
George Baillie, of Jcrviswuod IJuiiKS. 

Theiie was aiu's a IMay, and she Ino'd na men. 
She biggit her bonny bow'r down in yon glen ; 
But now she cries dool ! and a well-a-day ! 
Come down the green gate, and come here away. 
Hut now she t;ies, §'c. 

When bonny young Johny came o'er the sea. 
He said he saw naitliing sae lovely as me ; 
He hc,ht nie liaitli rings and niony bravv things ; 
And were na my heart light I wad die. 
JJt hcdit mc, Sfc. 

He had a wee titty that loo'd na me. 

Because I was twice as bonny as she ; 

She rais'd such a jiothcr 'twist him and his mo- 
ther. 

That were na my heart light, I wad die. 
aha ruis'd, Sfc. 

The day it was set, and the bridal to be, 
The wife took a dwain, and lay down to die ; 
She main'd and she graiu'd out of dolour aad 

pain, 
Till he vow'd he never wad see me again. 

She tnain'd ^t. 



• The hand of Bums is vitiblc here. The let and 
4th venes only are the original one*. 



His kin was for ane of a higher degree, 
Said, What had he to do with the like of me i 
Albeit I was bonny, I was na for Johny : 
And were na my heart light, I wad die. 
Albeit I was, §*c. 

They said, I had neither cow nor cafl^ 
Nor dribbles of drink rins throw the draff, 
Nor pickles of meal rins throw the mill-ee ; 
And were na my heart light, I wad die. 
Nor pickles of, Sfc 

His titty she was baith wylie and slee, 
She spy'd me as I came o'er the lee ; 
And then she ran in and made a loud din, 
Believe your ain een, an ye trow na me. 
And then she, §*c. 

His bonnet stood ay fou round on his brow ; 
His auld ane looks ay as well as some's new : 
But now he lets't wear ony gate it will hing. 
And casts himself dowie upon the corn-bing. 
£ut now he, Sfc. 

And now he gaes ' dandering* about the dykes, 
And a' he dow do is to hund the tykes : 
The live-Iang night he ne'er steeks liis oe. 
And were na my heart light, I wad die. 
The live-laug, Sfc. 

Were I young for thee, as I hae been, 
We shou'd hae been galloping down on yon green, 
And linking it on the lily-white lee ; 
And wow gin I were but young for thee ! 
And linking §-c. 



MARY SCOTT, THE FLOWER OF 
YARROW. 

Mr. Robertson, in his statistical account of 
the palish of Selkirk, says, that Mary Scott, the 
Flower of Yarrow, was descended from the Dry 
hope, and married into the Harden family. Her 
daughter was married to a predecessor of the 
present Sir Francis Elliot of Stubbs, and of the 
late Lord Heathfield. 

There is a circumstance in their contract of 
marriage that merits attention, as it strongly 
murks the predatory spiiit of the times.— The 
father-in-law agrees to keep his daughter, for 
some time after the marriage; for which the 
son-in-law binds himself to give him the profit! 
of the hrst Michaelmas-moon. — Burhs. 

Happy's the love which meets return. 
When in soft flames souls equal burn; 
But words are wanting to discover 
The torments of a hopeless lover. 
Ye registers of heav'n, relate, 
If looking o'er the rolls of fate, 
Did you there see me mark'd to marrow 
Mary Scott the flower of Yarrow i 



All no ! licr form s too neav'nly fair, 
Her love the gods above must share ; 
While mortals with despair explore her, 
And at distance due adore her. 
O lovely maid ! my doubts beguile. 
Revive and bless me with a smile : 
Alas ! if not, you'll soon debar a 
Sighing swain the banks of Yarrow. 

Be hush, ye fears, I'll not despair ; 
My Mary's tender as she's fair ; 
Then I'll go tell her all mine anguish, 
She is too good to let me languish : 
With success crown'd, I'll not envy 
The folks who dwell above the sky ; 
^Mien Mary Scott's become my marrow, 
We'll make a paradise in Yarrow. 



THE HIGHLAND QUEEN. 



The Highland Queen, music and poetry, was 
composed by a Mr. M'Vicar, purser of the Sol- 
bay man of war.— This I had from Dr. Black- 
lock. — Burns. 

Tune—" The Higliland Queen." 

No more ray song shall be, ye swains, 
Of purling streams or flowrie plains : 
More pleasing beauties now insjiire, 
And Phoebus deigns the warbling lyre. 

Divinely aided, thus I mean 
To celebrate, to celebrate. 

To celebrate my Highland Qaeen. 

In her sweet innocence you'll find 
With freedom, truth and virtue join'd ; 
Strict honour fills her spotless soul, 
And gives a lustre to the whole. 

A matchless shape and lovely mein 
All centre in, all centre in, 

All centre in my Highland Queen. 

No sordid wish or trifling joy 
Her settled calm of mind destroy : 
From pride and affectation free. 
Alike she smiles on you and me. 

The brightest nymph that trips the green 
I do pronounce, I do pronounce, 

I do pronounce ray Highland Queen. 

How blest the youth, whose gentle fate 
Has destined to so fair a mate. 
With all those wondrous gifts in store. 
To which each coming day brings more. 

No man more happy can be seen 
Possessing thee, possessing thee, 

Possessing thee, ray Highiaad Queen. 



SOMGS. 125 

THE JIUCKIN' 0' GEORDIE'S BYRfe. 



The chorus of this song is old — The rest is 
the work of Balloon Tytler.* — Burns. 

Tujie—" The Muckin' o' Geordie's Byre." 

The muckin' o' Geordie's byre. 

And the shool an' the graip sac clean, 
Has gar'd me weet my cheeks, 
And greet wi' baitli my een. 
Ic tvas liter my father s will. 
Nor yet my mither's desire, 
That e'er I should fyle my fingers 
Wi' muckin' o' Geordie's byre. 

The mouse is a merry beast, 

The moudiwort wants the een. 
But the warld shall ne'er get wit, 
Sae merry as we liae been. 

Jt was ne'er my father's toil!. 
Nor yet my mither's desire. 
That e'er I should fyle my fingers 
Wi' muckin' a' Geordie's byre. 



MACPHERSON'S FAREWELL; 

ALSO KNOWN AS 

MACPHERSON'S RANT. 

He was a daring robber in the beginning of 
this (eighteenth) century — was condemned to 
be hanged at Inverness. He is said, when un- 
der sentence of death, to have composed this 
tune, which he called hii own Lament, or Fare- 
well. 

Gow has published a variation of this fine 
tune, as his own composition, which he calls 
" The Princess Augusta." — Burns. 

I've spent my time in rioting, 

Debauch'd my health and strength : 
I've pillaged, plundered, nuirdeied, 

But now, alas ! at length 
I'm brought to punishment direct ; 

Pale death draws near to nie ; 
This end I never did project 

To hang upon a tree. 

To hang upon a tree, a tree. 

That cursed unhappy death ; 
Like to a wolf to worried be, 

And choakcd in the breath : 
My very heart would surely break 

When this I think upon, 
Did not my courage singular 

Bid pensive thoughts begone. 



• A singularly learned but unhappy person. He 
live<l at too early a siage of the world: before there 
was toleration in Britiin, whicli he was obliged to quit 
(1793) berausc of his dcmocratical writinijs : when ha 
took refuge at .Salem as a nrwtpaper editor. Healsa 
lived before there were Teropeiuoce SocietlCl nef 
where. 



m 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Ko nian on feartii, tnat draweth breatli, 

More courage had than I : 
1 dared my foes unto their face. 

And would not from them fly. 
This grandeur stout, I did keep out, 

Like Hector, manfully : 
Then wonder one like me so stout 

Should hang upon a tree. 

The Egyptian band I did command, 

With courage more by far, 
Than ever did a general 

His soldiers in the war. 
Being feared by all, both great and pn)all, 

I liv'd most joyfullie : 
Oh, curse upon this fate o' mine, 

To hang upon a tree. 

As for my life I do not care. 

If justice would take place. 
And bring my fellow-plunderers 

Unto the same disgrace : 
But Peter Brown, that notour loon, 

Escaped and was made free : 
Oh, curse upon this fate o' mine, 

To hang upon a tree. 

Both law and justice buried are. 

And fraud and guile succeed ; 
The guilty pass unpunished, 

If money intercede. 
The Laird o' Graunt, that Iliglil.md Sannt, 

His mighty majestic. 
He pleads the cause of Peter Brown, 

And lets Macpherson die. 

The destiny of my life contrived, 

By those whom I obliged. 
Rewarded me much ill for good, 

And left me no refuge : 
But Braco Duff, in rage enough, 

He first laid hands on me ; 
And if that death would not prevent, 

Avenged would I be. 

As for my life, it is but short, 

When I shall be no more ; 
To part with life, I am content, 

As any heretofore. 
Therefore, good people all, take heed, 

This warning take by mc — 
According to the lives you lead, 

Rewarded you shall be.» 



UP IN THE MORNING EARLY. 

The chorus of this is old ; the two stanzas 
are mine. 



• Bums' own set of the Lament, appears liker the 
natural effusions of the high-spirited criminal, than 
(hit homily. 



tjp in the nioi'ning's no fot Wi<) 

Up in the morning early ,■ 
When a the hilts are cover'd wV snaWf 

Tm sure it's winter fair fy. 

Cold blaws the wind frae east to west, 

The drift is driving sairly ; 
Sae loud and shrill's I hear the blast, 

I'm sure it's wiuter fairly. 

Burks. 



UP IN THE MORNING EARLY 

BY JOHN HAMILTON. 

Catii.d blaws the wind frae north to south, 

The drift is driving sairly. 
The sheep are courin' in the heuch : 

O, sirs, its winter fairly. 
Now up in the mornin's no for mc. 

Up in the mornin' early ; 
I'd rather gae supperless to my bed 

Than rise in the mornin' early. 

Loud roars the blast amang the woods, 

And tirls the branches barely ; 
On hill and house hear how it thuds, 

The frost is nipping sairly. 
Now up in the mornin's no for me, 

Up in the mornin' early; 
T& sit a' nicht wad better agree 

Than rise in the mornin' early. 

The sun peeps owcr yon southland hills 

Like ony timorous carlfb, 
Just blinks a wee, then sinks again, 

And that we find severely. 
Now up in the mornin's no for me, 

Up in in the mornin' early ; 
Mlipn snaw blaws in at the chimly cheek, 

Wha'd rise in the mornin' early. 

Nae lintios lilt on hedge or bush ; 

Poor things they suffer sairly. 
In cauldrife quarters a' the night, 

A' day they feed but sparely. 
Now up in the mornin's no for me. 

Up in the mornin' early ; 
A ])cimyless purse I wad rather dree 

Thau rise in the mornin' early. 

A cozie house and canty wife, 

Aye keep a body cheerly ; 
And pantries stou'd wi' meat and drink, 

They answer unco rarely. 
But up in the mornin's no for me, 

Up in the mornin' early ; 
The gowan maun glint on bank and brae, 

When I rise in the mornin' early 



mm^. 



1ST 



OALA.WATKU. 



1 Have heard a Concluaiog Versfi sung to 
ilkes« word^'-it is, 

As ay she came at e'enin fa , 

Amang the yellow broom, sae eerie, 

To seek the snood o' silk she tint ; — 

She fan na it, but gat her dearie. — Burns. 

The original song of Gala-water was thus re- 
cited by a resident in that very pastoral district. 

Bonnie lass of Gala-water ; 

Braw, braw lass of Gala-water ! 
I would wade the stream sae deep. 

For yon braw lass of Gala-water. 

Braw, braw lads of Gala-water ; 

O, braw lads of Gala-water ! 
I'll kilt my coat aboon my knee. 

And follow my love thro' the water. 

Sae fair her hair, saa brent her brow, 
Sae bonnie blue her een, my dearie ; 

Sae white her teeth, sae sweet her mou', 
I often kiss her till I'm wearie. 

O'er yon bank, and o'er yon brae. 
O'er yon moss amang the heather ; 

ni kilt my coat aboon my knee. 
And follow my love thro' the water. 

Down amang the broom, the broom, 
Down amang the broom, my dearie ; 

The lassie lost her silken snood, 

That gart her greet till she was wearie. 



DUMBARTON DRUMS. 

This is the last of the West HigUand airs ; 
and from it, over the whole tract of country to 
the confines of Tweedside, there is hardly a 
tune or song that one can say has taken its ori- 
gin firom any place or transaction in that part of 
Scotland. — The oldest Ayrshire reel, is Steiv- 
arton Jjoases, which was made by the father of 
the present Sir Walter Montgomery Cunning- 
ham, alias Lord Lyle ; since which period there 
has indeed been local music in that country in 
great plenty. — Johnie Faa is the only old song 
which I could ever trace as belonging to the ex- 
tensive county of Ayr. — Burns. 

The poet has fallen under a mistake here : — 
the drums here celebrated were not those of the 
town, or garrison of Dumbarton ; but of the 
regiment commanded by Lord Dumbarton — a 
cavalier of the house of Douglas — who signalized 
himself on the Jacobite side in 1685. — The old 
song was as follows : — 

Dumbarton's drums beat bonny, O, 
Ijflien tbejr mind me of my dear Johnie, 0. 



Mow happy dm !, 

^Vhcti my soldier \i by, 
Willie he kisses and blesses his Annii-, O ! 
'Tis a soldier alone can delight me, O, 
For his graceful looks do invite mo, O : 

While guarded in his arms, 

I'll fear no war's alarms. 
Neither danger nor death shall e'er flight me, O. 

My love is a handsome laddie, O, 
Genteel, but ne'er foppish nor gaudy, O : 

The' commissions are dear, 

Yet I'll buy him one this year ; 
For he shall serve no longer a cadie, O. 
A soldier has honour and bravery, O, 
Unacquainted with rogues and their knavery, 0: 

He minds no other thing 

But the ladies or the king ; 
For ev'ry other care is but slavery, O. 

Then I'll be the captain's lady, O ; 
Farewell all my frien(ls and my daddy, O : , 

I'll wait no more at home. 

But I'll follow with the drum. 
And whene'er that beats, I'll be ready, O. 
Dumbarton's drums sound bonny, O, 
They arc sprightly like my dear Johnie, O : 

How hapjiy shall I be. 

When on ray soldier's knee, 
And he kisses and blesses his Annie, O ! 



FOR LACK OF GOLD. 

The country girls in Ayrshire, instead of tin 
line 



say, 



.She me foi-sook for a great dukci 



For Athole's duke she me forsook ; 



which I take to be the original reading. 

These words were composed by the late Dr. 
Austin, physician at Edinburgh.— -He had 
courted a lady,* to whom he was shortly to 
have been married : but the Duke of Athole 
having seen her, became so much in love with 
her, that he made proposals of marriage, which 
were accepted of, and she jilted the Doctor.— 
Burns. 

br. austin. 

Tune—" For Lack of Gold." 

For lack of gold she has left me, O ; 
And of all that's dear she's bereft me, ; 
She me forsook for Athole's duke, 
And to endless wo she has left me, O. 
A star and garter have more art 
Than youth, a true and faithful heart ; 



• Jean, daughter of John Drumraond, of Me^e- 
inch, Esq. 



1S8 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Pot empty titles weniust part ; 

For glittering show she has left me, 0. 

No cruel fair shall ever move 
My injur'd heart again to love ; 
Thro* distant climates 1 must rove, 
Since Jeany she has left me, O. 
Ye powers above, I to your caie 
Resign my faithless lovely fair ; 
Your choicest blessings be her share, 
Tho' she has ever left me, O ! 



MILL, MILL O. 

Thk original, or at least a song evidently 
prior to Ramsay's, is stiU extant, — It runs thus : 

The mill, mill O, and the kill, hill O, 
And the cnggin o' Peggy's wheel O, 

The sack and the sieve, and a she did leave, 
And danc'd the miller's reel O. 

As I cam down yon waterside, 

And by yon shellin-hill O, 
There I spied a bonnie bonnie lass, 

And a lass that I lov'd right wcel 0. — * 



-BCRNS. 



Love gae the command, 1 took her by the hand, 

And bad her a' fears expel-0. 
And nae niair look wan, for I waa the man 

AVha had done her the deed mysell-0. 

My bonnie sweet lass, on the gowany grass, 

Beneath the sliilllng-hlll-0, 
If I did offence, I'se make ye amends. 

Before I leave IVgv's mill-0. 
O ! the mill, mill-d, and the kill, kill-0, 

And the cogging of the wheel-0, 
The sack and tlie sieve, a' thae ye man leave, 

And round with a soger reel-0. 



MILL, MILL 0. 

Beneath a green shade I fand a fair maid 

Was sleeping sound and still-0, 
A' lowing wi' love, my fancy did rove, 

Around her with good will-0 : 
Her bosom I press'd, but, sunk in her rest, 

She stir'd na my joy to spill-O ; 
While kindly she slept, close to her I crept, 

Aud kiss'd, and kiss'd her my fiU-O. 

Oblig'd by command in Flandi-rs to land, 

T' employ my courage and skill-O, 
Frae 'er quietly I staw, hoist'd sails and awa. 

For wind blew fair on the hill-0. 
Twa years brought me hame, where loud-frasing 
fame 

Tald me with a voice right slirill-0. 
My lass, like a fool, had mounted the stool, 

Nor ken'd wha'd done her the ill-0. 

Mair fond of her charms, with my son in her 
arms, 

A ferlying gpeer'd how she fell-0 ; 
Wi' the tear in her eye, quoth she, let me die, 

Sweet Sir, gin I can tell-0. 

• The remaining two stanzas, though pretty enough, 
parul^e rather too much of the rude simplicity of the 
" OliXva time" lo be a^linitted here.—/?'/. 



WALY, WALY. 

In the west country I have heard a different 
edition of the second stanza. — Instead of the 
four lines, beginning with, '' When ci'ckle- 
shtlls," §-c. the other way ran thus : — 

O WHEREFORE need 1 busk my head, 
Or wherefore need I kjme iny hair, 

Sin my fause hive has me forsook, 

And says he'll never luve nie mair. — ■ 

BUKNS. 



O %VAi.y waly up the bank. 

And waly w;;ly down the brae, • 

And waly waly by yon burn-side. 

Where I and my love were wont to gae. 
T leant my hack unto an aik, 

I thought it was a trustie trie ; 
But first it bow'd, and syne it brake, 

And sae my true love did lyghtlie me. 

O waly waly gin love be bonnie 

A little time while it is new ; 
But when its auld it waxeth cauld, 

And fades awu' like morning-dew. 
O wherefore shu'd I busk my head ? 

Or wherefore shu'd I kame my hair ? 
For my true love has me forsook. 

And says he'll never loe me mair. 

Now Arthur-seat shall be my bed. 

The slieits shall ncir be fyl'd by me : 
Saint Anton's well sail be my drink, 

Since my true love has forsaken me. 
Marti'mas wind, whan wilt thou blaw, 

And shake the green leaves aff the trie ? 
O gentle death, whan wilt thou cum ? 

For of my life I am wearie. 

'Tis not the frost that freezes fell, 
Nor blawing snaw's incleraencie ; 

'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry, 
But my love's heart grown cauld to me< 

Vv'han we came in by Glasgowe town, 
We were a comely sight to see ; 



SONGS. 



129 



My \ove was claH i' th' black velvet, 
And I iiiysell in crainasile. 

But had 1 wist before I kisst, 

That love had l)een sae ill to win, 
I had lockt my heart in a case of gowd, 

And pinti'd it wi' a siller pin. 
Oh, oh ! if my young babe were borne. 

And set upon the nurse's knee. 
And I myseil were dead and gone, 

For a maid again He never be ! 



TODLEN HAME. 

This is, perhaps, the first bottle song that 
ever was composed. — Burns. 

When I've a saxpence under my thumb. 

Then I'll get credit in ilka town : 

But ay when I'm poor they bid me gae by ; 

O ! poverty parts good comjiany. 
Todlen hame, todlen hame, 
Caudna my loovecome todlen h nine 9 

Fair-fa' the goodwife, and send her good sale. 
She gi'es us white bannocks to drink her ale, 
Syne if her tippony chance to be sma'. 
We'll tak a good scour o't, and ci't awa'. 

Todlen hame, todlen hame, 

via round as a neep, come todlen hame. 

My kimmer and I lay down to sleep, 

And twa pintstoups at our bed-feet ; 

And ay when we waken'd, we drank them dry : 

What think ye of my wee kimmer and I ? 

Todlen but, and todlen ben. 

Sat round as my loove comes todlen hame. 

Leeze me on liquor, my todlen dow, 

Ye're ay sae good humour'd when weeting your 

mou; 
When sober sae sour, ye'll fight wi* a flee, 
That 'tis a biyth sight to the bairns and me. 
When todlen hame, todlen hame. 
Whim round as a neep ye come todlen hame. 



CAULD KAIL IN ABERDEEN. 

This tong is by the Duke of Gordon — The 
lU ver.se> are, 

Thfre's cauid kail in Aberdeen, 

And castocks in Stiabo^ie ; 
When ilka lad nnuii b.ie liis lass, 

Then fye, gie me uiy d'gie. 
My coi/ic. Sirs, 111,1/ CO lie, S m, 

I cnnniit ipnnt mil inf/iy : 
I wuliiii ijie mil tlir>t-i/'n\l stmip 



Ih 



>■ '/ • 



// 



There's Johnie Smith has got a wife 
That scrimps him o' his cogie, 

If she were mine, u|>on my life 
I'd douk her in a bogie. 

My cogie, Sirs, §-c — Burns. 



CAULD KAIL IN ABERDEEN. 

Tjtere's cauld kail in Aberdeen, 
And castocks in Stra'bogiej 
Gin I but hae a bonny lass, 
Ye're welcome to your cogie : 
And ye may sit up a' the night, 
And drink till it be braid day-light ; 
Gic me a lass baith clean and tight, 
To dance the Reel of Bogie. 

III cotClons the French excel ; 

John Bull loves countra-dances ; 

The Spaniards dance fandangos well ; 

Mynheer an allemande prances : 

In foursome reels the Scotch delight, 

The threesome maist dance wond'rous llgaV{ 

But twasome's ding a' out o* sight, 

Daac'd to the Reel of Bogie. 

Come, lads, and view your partner* wdU, 
Wale each a blythsome rogie ; 
I'll tak this lassie to mysel, 
She seems sae keen and vogie ! 
Now piper lad bang up the spring; 
The countra fashion is the thing, 
To prie their mou's e'er we begia 
To dance the Reel of Bogie. 

Now ilka lad has got a lasSi 
Save yon auld duited fogie ; 
And ta'en a fling upo' the gnu% 
As they do in Stra'bogie : 
But a' the lasses look sae fain, 
We canna think oursel's to hain, 
For they maun hae their came agtia 
To dance the Reel of Bogie. 

Now a' the lads hae done their bett, 

Like true men of Stra'bogie ; 

We'll stop awhile and tak a rest. 

And tipple out a cogie : 

Come now, my lads, and tak your gU% 

iVnd try ilk other to surpass, 

III wishing health to every last 

To dance the Reel of Uugie. 



WE RAN AND THEY RAN. 

TiiK author of Wt rnn and they ran, and 
iLri/ r.iii 11/1'/ Hf ran, Ac. wm tl.c lute Ucv 
Miii.l.icli M i.eiuiao, milliliter at CralLi«>, 0»4. 

, ,li.._|{riiNs. 



L7 



190 



BimNS' WORKS. 



Tlieire^s sonid ifty tkat vre wan, 

Some say that they wan, 
Some say that naae waa at a', man ) 

But one thing I'm sure, 

That at Sheriff Muir * 
A battle there was, which I saw, roan : 

^nd we ran, and they ran, and they ran, 
and we ran, and we ran, and they ran aiuu. 



Brave Argyle f and Belhaven, \ 

Not like frighted Leven, § 
Which Rothes |( and Haddington ^ sa', man ; 

For they all with Wightman •* 

Advanced on the right, man. 
While others took flight, being ra', man. 
And we ran, and they ran, Sfc. 

Lord Roxburgh +f was there> 

In order to shai'e 
With Douglas, ^ who stood not in awe, man, 

Volunteerly to ramble 

With lord Loudon Campbell, || || 
Brave Day §§ did suffer for a', man. 
And we ran, and they ran, Sfc 

Sir John Schaw, ^^ that great knight, 

Wi' broad-sword most bright, 
On horseback he briskly did charge, man ; 

An hero that's bold. 

None could him with-hold, 
He stoutly encounter'd the targemen. 
And we ran, and they ran, §'f. 

For the cowardly Whittam, *** 

For fear they should cut him, 
Seeing glittering broad-swords wi' a pa', man, 

And that in sufh thrang, 

Made Baird edicang, -j-j-f 
And from the brave clans ran awa', man. 
And toe ran, and they ran, ^'c. 



Brave Mar * and Panraure f 

Were firm I am sure, 
The latter was kidnapt awa', man, 

With brisk men about. 

Brave Harry ^ retook 
His brother, and laught at them a', man. 
And tve ran, and they ran, S^c. 

Grave Marshall I] and Lithgow, § 

And Glengary's ^ pith too, 
Assisted by brave Loggie-a-man, •* 

And Gordons the bright 

So boldly did fight. 
The redcoats took fliglit and awa', man. 
And vc ran, and they ran, Sfc. 

Strathmorc f f and Clanronald :f^ 
Cry'd still, advance, Donald ! 

Till both these heroes did fa', man ; || || 
For there was such hashing, 
Aud broad-swords a clashing, 

Brave Forfar §§ himself got ii cla', man. 
And we ran, and they ran, ^c. 



• The battle of Dumblain or Sheriff'muir was fontjht 
the 13th of November 1715, between the Earl of Mar, 
for the Chevalier, and the Duke of Argyle for I lie go- 
vernment. Both sides claimed the victory, tl-.e left 
■wing of either army being routetl. The canttiro of 
Preston, it is very remarkable, happened on the same 
day. 

t John (Campbell) t'd Duke of Argyle, commander- 
in-chief of the government forces ; a noblegtian of great 
talents and integrity, much respected by all parties : 
died 174.>. 

i John (Hamilton) Lord Belhaven ; sensed as a vo- 
lunteer ; and had the command of a troop of horse 
raised by the county of Haddington : perished at sea, 
1721. 

5 David (Lesly) Earl of Leven; for the government. 

II John (Lesly) Earl of Rothes ; for the government. 

t Thomas (Hamilton) Earl of Haddington; for the 
government. 

*• Major-General Joseph Wightman. 

tl Jolm (Ker) first Duke of Roxburgh; for the go- 
mcnt. 

it Archibald (Douglas) Duke of Douglas. 

nil Hugh (Campbell) Earl of Loudon. 

^ \ Archibald Earl of Hay, brother to the Duke of 
Argyle. He was dangerously wounded. 

in An officer in the troop of gentleman volunteers, 

»»• Major-general Thomas Whitham. 



* John (Erskine) Earl of Mar, commander-in-chief 
of the Chevalier's .irmy ; a nobleman of great spirit, 
honour, and abilities. He died at Aix-la-Chapclle in 
17."2. 

t James (Maulo) Earl of I'anmure; died at Paris, 

i7':;5. 

.t Honourable Harry 'Maiile, brother to the Earl. 
Tlie circ'umstaiice here alluded to is thus related in the 
Earl of Mar's printed .nccount of the engagement :— . 
" Till." prisoners taken by ns were very civilly used, 
and nonn of them stript. Some were aliow'd to return 
to .Stirling upon their pnvnlo, iVc. . . The few prison- 
ers t.ikcn by the enemy on our left were most of them 
stript and wounded alter tf;ken. Tlie Earl of Pan- 
mure being first of the prisoners wounded after taken. 
They having refused lii.s parole, he was left in a vil- 
Ingo, and by the hasty retreat of the enemy, upon the 
approach of our army, was rescu'd by fiis brother and 
hi'; servants." 

II (leorge (Keith) Earl Mariscliall, then a youth at 
college. He died at his "overnment of Neufehatel in 
1 771 . His brother, the celebrated Marshall Keith, was 
with liim in this battle. 

; James (Livingston) E.-ul of Calendar and Linlith- 
gow: attainted. 

H Alexander M'Don.aldof G'lengary, laird of a clan ; 
a brave and spirited chief : attainted. 

'** Thomas Drummond of Logie-Almond ; com- 
mnndrd the two battalions of Drummonds. He was 
wounded. 

tt John (Lyon) Eavl of Strathmore; "a man of 
good parts, of a most amiable disposition and charac- 
ter." 

.ti Ranald M'Donald, Captain of Clan Ranald. 
N. Ji. The Captain of a clan w;is one who, being next 
or ne.ar in blood to the Chief, headed them in his infan 
cy or absence. 

II II " We have lost to our regret, the Earl of Strath- 
more and the Captain of Clan Ranald." Earl of Mar^s 
Letter to the Governor of Perth. Again, printed ac- 
count : — " We eaun't find above 60 of our men in all 
kill'd, among whom were the Ear! of Strathmore [andl 
the Captain of Clan Ranald, both much lamented.'* 
The latter, "for his good parts and gentle accomplish- 
ments, was look'd upon as the most galbnt and gener. 
ous young gentleman among the clans. . . . He was 
lamented by both parties that knew him." 

His servant, who lay on the field watching his dead 
body, being asked next day who that was, answered. 
Ho was a man yesterday. — SostreU's Journey to the He- 
brides, p. 3.i9. 

^ \ Archibald (Douglas) Earl of Forfar, who com- 
manded a regiment in the Duke's army. He is said to 
have been shot in the knee, and to have had ten or 
twelve cuts in his head from the broad-swords, Jia 
died a lew days after of his \younUs, 



S0NG9. 



)31 



Lord I^ertii * stood tU stoftti* 

Seaforth f but lukewarm, 
Kilsyth I and Stialhallau |j not sla', maii ; 

And Hamiltou § pled 

The men were not bred, 
■For he had no fancy to fa', man. 

And ive ran, and they ran, SfC, 

Brave generous Soutliesk, ^ 

Tilebairri ** was brisk. 
Whose father indeed would not dra', man, 

Into the same yoke, 

Which serv'd for a cloak. 
To keep the estate 'twixt them twa, man. 
jihd we ran, and ilieij ran, §c. 

Lord Rollo \\ not fear'd, 

Kintore \\ and his beard, 
Pitsligo It ll and Ogilvle §§ a', man, 

And brothers Balfours, ^^ 

They stood the first show'rs, 
Clackmannaa and Burleigh ••* did cla', man, 
And we ran, and they ran, §v. 

But Cleppan f f f acted pretty. 

And Strowan the witty, \\\ 
A poet that pleases us a', man ; 

For mine is but rhime. 

In respect of what's fine. 
Or what he is able to dra', man. 

And rve ran, and they ran, !^-c. 



• James Marquis of DrummomI, son of James 
(Drummond) Duke of Perth, was lieutenant-seneral 
of horse, and " behaved with great gallantry." Me 
was att-iinted, but escaped to France, where he soon 
after died. 

t William (Mackenzie) Karl of Scnforth. He was 
attainted, and died in nw. 

t WlUiam (Livingston) Viscount Kilsytli : attainted. 

II William (Di-nnimond) Viscount Stratha'lan : 
Vhose sense of loyalty could scarcely equal the spirit 
and activity he manifested in the cause. He was ta- 
ken prisoner in this battle, which he survived to per- 
ish in the still more fatal one of Culloden.nuiir. 

{ Lieutenant-general George Hamilton, eommand- 
ing under the Karl of Mar. 

^ James (Carnegie) Karl of Southcsk ; was attaint- 
ed, and, escaping to France, died there in 1729. 

••William (Murray) MarquLsof Tullibardin, eldest 
son to the Duke of Atholn. Having been attainted, 
he was taken at sea in 17'lb", and died soon after, of a 
flux, in the Tower. 

H Robert (Uollo) Lord Rollo; " a man of singular 
merit and great integrity :" died in 1 758. 

Jt William (Keith) Karl of Kintore. 

nil Alexander (Forbes) Lord Pitsligo; "a man of good 
parts, great honour and spirit, and universally beloved 
and esteemed." He was engaged again in the affair of 
17'15, for which he was attainted, and died at an ad- 
vanced age in 17Gi.'. 

^ (j James Lord Ogilvie, eldest son of David (Ogil- 
vie) Earl of -Virly. He w.is attainted, but afterw.ards 
pardoned. His father, not dra'ing into the same yoke, 
' saved the estate. 

tU Some relations it is supposed of the Lord Bur- 
leigh. 

•W" Robert (Balfour) Lord Burleigh. He was at- 
tainted, and died in 1757. 

ttt Major William Clephane, adjutant-general to 
the Marquis of Drummond. 

ttt .-Xlexandir Robertson of .Struan; who, having 

Siperienced every vicissitude of life, with a stoical 
rmness, died in iieace 17'»9. He was an excellent 
poet, and has left elegies worthy of TibuUus, 



Vot Hiihtley * &^A Sinclair, -f 

They both play'd the tinclair. 
With consciences black like a era', nlan'i 

Some Angu.i aud Fifcmen 

They ran for their life, mail, 
And ne'er a Lot's wife there at a', man. 
And ice }-an, and they ran, !(c. 

Then Laurie the traytor, 

Wlio Ijetray'd his master, 
His king and his country and a', man, 

Pretending Mar might 

Give order to fight, 
To the right of the army awa', man. 
And we ran, and they ran, 4fc. 

Then Laurie, for fear " 

Of what he might hear, 
Took Drummond's best horse and awa', malt, 

Instead o' going to Perth, 

He crossed the Firth, 
Alongst Stirling-bridge and awa', man. 
And we ran, and they ran, §•€. 

To London he press'd, 

And there he address'd, 
That he behav'd best o' them a', man ; ' 

And there without strife 

Got settled for life, 
An hundred a year to his fa', man. 
And we ran, and they ran, Sfc. 

In Burrowstounness 

He resides wi' disgrace. 
Till his neck stand in need of a dra', maik' 

And then in a tether 

He'll swing frae a ladder, 
[Aud] go aif the stage with a pa', man. 
And we ran, and they ran, Sfc. 

Rob Roy stood watch 

On a hill for to catch 
The booty for ought that I sa', man, ' 

For he ne'er advanc'd 

From the place he was stanc'd, 
Till nae mair to do there at a', man. 
And we ran, and they ran, Sfc. " 

.So we a' took the flight, 

And Moubray the wright ; 
But Letham the smith was a bra' man, 

For he took the gout. 

Which truly was wit. 
By judging it time to withdra', man. ' 
And we ran, and they ran, Sfc. ' 

And trumpet M'Lean, 
Whose breeks were not clean. 



• Alexander (Gordon) Marquis of Huntley, eldest 
son to the Duke of Gordon, who, according to the 
usual policy of his country, (of which we here meet 
with several other instances), remained neutral. 

t John Sinclair, Esq. commonly called Master of 
Sinclair, eldest son of Henry Lord Sinclair ; was at- 
tainted, but afterwards pardoned, and died in i750. 
The estate was preserved of course. 



132 



BUR>JS* WORKS. 



Thro' misfortune tie kappen'd to fa', man, 

By saving his neck 

His trumptt did break, 
Came aff without musick at a', man.* 
A.ad we ran, and they ran, Sfc. 

So there such a race was. 

As ne'er in that place was, 
And as little chase was at a', man ; 

Frae ither they ' run' 

Without touk o* drum ; 
They did not make use of a pa', man. 

And we ran, and they ran, and theij ran, 
and we ran, and we ran, and they ran awtC , 
man. 



BroE YE YET. 

Thekz ii a beautiful song to this tune, be- 
ginning, 

Alas, my son, you little know— 

which ia the composition of a Miss Jenny 
Graham of Dumfries. — Burns. 

Alas ! my sou, you little know 
The sorrows that from wedlock flow : 
Farewell to every day of ease, 
Mjhen you have gotten a wife to please. 
Sae bide you yet, and bide you yet,^ 
Ye little ken what's to betide you yet ; 
The half of that will gane you yet, 
If a wayward wife obtain you yet. 

Your experience is but small. 
As yet you've met with little thrall ; 
The black cow on your foot ne'er trod, 
"Which gars you sing alang the road. 

iSae bide you yet, |"c. 

Sometimes the rock, sometimes the reel, 
Or some piece of the spinning-wheel, 
She will drive at you wi' good will, 
And then she'll send you to the de'il. 

Sae bide you yet, S^c, 



• The particulars of this anecdote no where appear. 
The hero is supposed to be thp i.imc Jo/in M'Leiui, 
ti-umpet, who was sent from Lord Mmt, then at Perth, 
with a letter to ttie Duke of Arg\;c, at Stuling camp, ] 
on the 50th of Octciber. y'it i ri^iwi/ Letters 1730. 
Two copies, however, printed not lung alter 1715, j 
read, " Ami trumpet Marine." \ 

In 1782 the son of this Trumpeter Marine told the ; 
Earl of Haddington (ihen Lord Binning) that ihe first 
circuit he ever attended, as oneof his Majesty's lioiise- 1 
hold trumpeters, wiis the Northern, in the \car 1716, a- | 
long with old Lord Minto. That the reason of his going 
there was, that the circuit immediately preceding, his j 
faihei had been so harassed in every town he went' 
through, bv the people singing his verse, " And trum- 
ptt Marine, w/io.ie brieks," Is-c. of this song, that ho 
iwore he would never go again i and actually resigned 
Ills situaion in favour of his son. — Campbell's Hiitory 
ff Pvttry in Scott..nd, I 



When 1 like you was young and fre«, 
I v.ilued not the proudest she ; 
Like you I vainly boa.sted then. 
That men alone were born to reign. 

Sae bide you yet, j-c. 

Great Hercules and Sampson too, 
Were stronger men tlian I or you ; 
Yet they were baffled by their dears, 
And felt the distaff and the sheers. 

Sae bide you yet, SfC. , 

Stout gates of brass, and well-built walls, 
Are proof Against swords and cannon-balls ; 
But nought is found by sea or land. 
That can a wayward wife withstand. 

Sue bide you yet, SfC. 



BIDE YE YET. 

OLD SET. 

Gin I had a wee house and a canty wee fire, 
A bonny wee wifie to praise and admire, 
A bonny wee yardie aside a wee burn ; 
Fareweel to the bodies that yammer and mourn. 
Sae hide ye yet, and bide ye yet, 
Ye little hen what may betide ye yet, 
Some bonny wee body may be my lot, 
And I'll be canty wV thinking o't. 

When I gang afield, and come home at e'en, 
I'll get my wee wifie fou neat and fou clean ; 
And a bonny wee bairne upon her knee, 
That will cry, papa, or daddy, to me. 

Sac bide ye yet, ifc. 

And if there happen ever to be 
A difF'rence atween my wee wifie and me, 
In hearty good humour, although she be teaz'di 
I'll kiss her and clap her until she be pleas'd. 
Sae hide ye yet, §*c. 



THE ROCK AND THE WEE PICKLS 
TOW. 

BT ALEXANDER ROSS. 

THfiRE was an auld wife an' a wee pickle tow, 

Ati' she wad gae try the spinning o't. 

She louted her down, an' her rock took a loWi 

And that was a bad beginning o't : 

She sat an' she giat, an' she flet and she flange 

An' she threw an' she blew, an' she wrigl'd ul 

wrang. 
An' she choked, an' boaked, an' cry'd like to 

mang, 
Alas ! for the dreary spinning o't. 

I've wanted a saik for these eight years an* tc^ 
An' thix was to be the beginning o't, 



SONGS. 



135 



But T vow I shiU want it for as lang again, 

Op ever I tiy the spinning!; o't ; 

For never since ever they ca'd me as tlicy ca' 

me, 
I)id sic a mishap an' misanter befa' me. 
But ye shall hae leave baith to hang me an' 

draw me, 
The neist time I try the spinning o't. 

I hae keeped my house for these three score o' 

I years, 

An' ay I kept free o* the spinning o't, 
But how I was sarked fiuii f i' tliem that speers, 
For it minds me upo' the beginning o't. 
But our women are now a days grown sae bra', 
That ilka an maun hae a sark an' some hae twa, 

1 The warlds were better when ne'or un awa' 
Had a rag but ane at the beginning o't. 

I Foul fa' her that ever advis'd me to cpin. 
That had been so lung a beginning o't, 
I might well have ended as I did begin, 
Nor have got sick a skair with the spinning o't. 

« But they'll say, she's a wyse wife that kens her 

I ain weerd, 

I thought on a day, it should never be speer'd. 
How loot ye the low take your ruck l)e the 
beard, 

I When ye yeed to try the spinning o't ? 

The spinning, the spinning it g.ir? my heart sob, 

When I think upo' the beginning o't, 

I thought ere I died to h^ve anes made a web, 

I But still I had weers o' the spinning o't. 

j But had I nine dathers, as I hae but three, 
The safest and soundest advi(!o I cud gee. 
Is that they frae spinning %vMd keep thcii' hands 

j free, 

I For fear of a bad beginning o't. 

Yet in spite of my counsel if they will needs run 
' The drearysome risk of the spinning o't, 
1 Let them seek out a lythe in the heat of the sun, 

And there venture o' the beginning o't ; 

But to do as I did, alas, and awow ! 

To busk up a rock at the cheek of the low, 
I Says, that I had but little wit in my pow, 
I And as little ado with the spinning o't. 

I 

I But yet after a', there is ae thing that grieves 
' My heart to think o' the beginning o't, 
Had I won the length but of ae pair o' sleeves, 
Then there had been word o' the spinning o't ; 
This I wad ha' washen an' bleech'd like the snaw, 

I And o' my twa gardies like moggans wad draw. 
An* then fouk wad say, that auld Girzy v.'as bra', 
An' ft' was upon her ain spiuning o't. 

( But gin I wad shog about till a new spring, 
j I should yet hae a bout of the spinning o't, 
A mutchkin of linseed I'd i' the yerd fling. 
For a' the wan chansie beginning o't. 
] I'll gar my ain Tammie gae down to the how, 
' An' cut me a rock of a widdershiaes grow, 



Of good ranty-tree for to chi ry my row, 

An' a spindle of the same for the twining n't. 

For now when I mio^ '.-• . <it Miggy Grim 
This morning just a^ "> be^.n:.>ci^ <i ■, 
She was never ca'd :^aricy, uUt canny an' slim, 
An' sae it has fair'd . my spinning o't : 
But un' my new rock were anes cntted ait' dry 
I'll a' Maggies can an' her cantraps defy. 
An' but onie sussie the spinning I'll try, 
An' ye's a' hear o' the beginning o't 

Quo' Tibby, her dather, tak tent fat ye say, 
The never a ragg we'll be seeking o't. 
Gin ye anes begin, ye'll tarveal's night an* day, 
Sae it's vam ony mair to be speaking o't. 
Since. lambas I'm now gaing thirty an' twa, 
.■\n' never a dud sark had I yet gryt or sma', 
A:i' what war am I? I'm as warm an' as bra', 
As thrummy tail'd Meg that's a spinner o't. 

To iabur the lint-land, an' then buy the seed, 
An' then to yoke me to the harrowing o't, 
An' syn loll amon't an' pike out ilka weed, 
Like swine in a sty at the farrowing o't ; 
Syn powing and ripling an' steeping, an' then 
To gar's gae an' spread it upo' the cauld plain, 
An' then after a' may be labor in vain. 
When the wind and the weet gets the fusion o't. 

But tho' it should anter the weather to byde, 
Wi' beetles v.'o're set to the drubbing o't. 
An' then frae our fingers to gnidge aif the hide, 
With tiie v.earisome wark o' the rubbing o't. 
An' syn ilka tait maun be heckl'd out throw. 
The lint putten ae gate, anither the tow, 
Syn on a rock wi't, an' it taks a low, 
The back o' my hand to the spinning o't. 

Quo' Jenny, I think 'oman ye're i' the right, 
Set your feet ay a spar to the spinning o't, 
We mav tak our advice frae our ain mither's 

■fright 
That she gat when she try'd the beginning o't. 
But they'll say that auld fouk are twice bairna 

indeed. 
An' sae she has kythed it, but there's nae need 
To sickan an arashack that we drive our head. 
As langs we're sae skair'd fra the spinning o't. 

Quo' Nanny the youngest, I've now heard 

you a'. 
An' dowit's your doom o' the spinning o't, 
Gifi ye, fan the cows flings, the cog cost ava'. 
Ye may e<;e where ye'll lick up your wincing 

o't. 
But I see that but spinning I'll never be bra'. 
But gae by the name of a dilp or a da, 
Sae lack where ye like I shall anes shak a fa'. 
Afore 1 be dung with the spinning o't. 

For well I can mind me when black 'Willie BelJ 
Had Tibbie there just at the winning o't. 
What blew up the l.-argain, she kens well herseH, 
Was the want of the knack of the spinning o\ 



134 



BURNS' WORKS. 



An* now, poor 'oraan, for ouglit that I ken, 
She may never get sic an ofter again. 
But pine away bit an' bit, like Jenkin's hen, 
An' naething to wyte but the spinning o't. 

But were it for nacthing, but just this alane, 
I shall yet hae about o' the spinning o't. 
They may cast me for ca'ing me black at the 

bean. 
But nae cause I shun'd the beginning o't. 
But, be that as it happens, I care not a fetroc, 
But nane of the lads shall liae it to »ay, 
When they come till woo, she kens naething 

avae, 
Nor has onie ken o' the spinning o't. 

In the days they ca'd yore, gin auld fouks had 

. but won, 
To a surkoat hough side for the winning o't. 
Of coat raips well cut by tho cast o' thi-ir bun, 
They never sought maU' o' the spinning o't. 
A psur of grey hoggers well clinked biuevv, 
Of nae other lit but the hue of the ew, 
With a pair of rough ruUions to scuft' thro' the 

dew, 
Wa* the fee they sought at the beginning o't. 

But we maun hae linen, an' that maun hae we, 
An' how get we that, but the spinning o't ? 
How can we hae face for to seek a gryt fee. 
Except we can help at the winuing o't ? 
An' we maun hae pearl ins and niabbics an' 

cocks, 
An* some other thing that the ladies ca' sraoks. 
An* how get we that, gin we tak na our rocks, 
And pow what we can at the spinning o't ? 

'Tis needless for us for to tak our remarks 
Frae our mither's miscooking the spinning o't, 
She never kend ought o' the gueed of the sarks, 
Frae this aback to the beginning o't. 
Twa three ell of plaiden was a' that was sought 
By our auld warld bodies, an' that boot be 

bought, 
For in ilka town sickan things was nae wrought, 
So little they kend o' the spinning o't. 



HOOLY AND FAIRLY. 

It 18 remark-worthy that the song of Hoohj 
and Fairly, in all the old editions of it, is cal- 
,ed The Drunken Wife o' Galloway, which 
.ocaliaes it to that country.— Burns. 

THE DRUHKEN WIFE o' OALIOWAY. , 

Oh ! what had I to do for to marry ? 
My wife she drinks naething but sack and Ca- 
nary, 
1 to her friends complain' d right early, 
O / gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly, 

Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly, 
.0 / gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly. 



First she drunk crummic, and syne she drank 

garie ; 
Now she has druken my bonny grey marie. 
That carried mo thro' a' the dubs and the lario 
O ! gin, Sfc. 

She has druken her stockins, sa has she her 

shoon. 
And she hits druken her bonny new gown ; 
Her wee bit dud sark that co'erd her fu' rarely, 
O ! gin, §'c. 

If she'd drink but her ain things 1 wad na much 

cire. 
But she drinks my claiths I co.nna weel spare, 
Whtn I'm wi' my gossi])s, it angers me sairly, 
O ! gin, §-c. 

My Suiidiv's coiit she's laid it a wad. 
The he-t blue bonnet e'er was on my head ; 
At kirk and at market I'm cover'd but barely, 
O ! gin, Is'c. 

The verra gray niitt.'Us tliat gaed on my ban's, 
To her neebor wife she has laid them in pawns j 
My bane-headed staff that I lo'ed sae dearly, 
O ! gin, cj-c. 

If there's ony siller, she maun keep the purse ; 
If I seek but a baubee she'll scauld and she'll 

curse, 
She gangs like a queen — I scrimped and sparely, 
O ! gin, [^x. 

I never was givr-u to wrangling nor strife. 
Nor e'er did refuse her the comforts of life ; 
Ere it come to a war I'm ay tor a parley. 
O ! gin, ^c. _ 

A pint wi' her cummers I wad her allow. 
But when she sits down she fills herself fou ; 
And when she is fou she's unco camstarie, 
O ! gin, §-c. 

Wlicn she comes to the street she roars and 

she rants. 
Has nae fear o' her neebors, nor minds the 

house wants ; ^'J 

She rants up some fool-sang, like " Up y'er 

heart, Charlie," 

O ! gin, §-c. ; 

And when she comes hame she lays on the lads, 
She ca's the lasses baith limmers and jads, 
And I, my ain sell, an auld cuckold carlie, 
O I gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly, 

Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly, 
O ! gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly. 



SONGS. 



13^ 



THE OLD MAN'S SONG. 

EY THK REV. J. SKINNER. 
I 

Tune—" Dumbarton Drums." 

O ! WHY sliould old age so much wound us ! * 
There is nothing in it all to confound us : 

For how happy now am I. 

With my old wife sitting by, 
And our bairns and our oys f all around us ; 

For how happy now am I, §-ff. 

We began in the warld wi' uacthiniTi 

And we've jogg'd on, and toil'd for the ae thing 

We made use of what we had, 

And our thankful hearts were glad ; 

When we got the bit meat and the claithing, 

We made use of what we had, fee. 

Wc have liv'd all our life-time contented. 
Since the day we became first acquainted : 

It's true we've been but poor, 

And we are so to this hour ; 
But we never yet repin'd or lamented. 

It's true we've been but poor, ^x. 

When we had any stock, we ne'er vauntlt. 
Nor did wc hing our heads when we wantit ; 

But we always gave a share 

Of the little we cou'd spare. 
When it pleas'd a kind Heaven to grant it. 

Sut toe always gave a share, Sfc. 

We never laid a scheme to be wealthy. 
By means that were cunning or stealth)' ; 
But we always had the bliss, 
(And what further could we wiss). 
To be pleas'd with ourselves, and be healthy. 
JBut we always had the bliss, Sfc. 

What tho' we cannot boast of our guineas, 
We have plenty of Jockies and Jeanies ; 

And these, I'm certain, are 

More desirable by far 
Thau a bag full of poor yellow sleenies. 

And these, I'm certain, are, ^-c. 

We have seen many wonder and ferly. 
Of changes that almost are yearly. 
Among rich folks up and down. 
Both in country and in town, 
Who now live but scrimply and barely. 
Among ri''h folks up and doivn, S^c 

Then why should people brag of prosperity ? 

A straiten'd life we see is no rarity ; 
Indeed we've been in want. 
And our living's been but scaut, 

Yet we never were reduced to need charity. 
Indeed we've been in want, Sfc. 



In this house we first came together, 
Where we've long been a father and mither ; 

And tho' not of stone and lime, 

It will last us all our time ; 
And, I hope, we shall ne'er need anither. 

And tlio' not of stone and lime, §"c. 

And when we leave this poor habitation. 
We'll depart with a good commendation ; 
We'll go hand in hand, I wiss, 
To a better house than this. 
To mal<e room for the next generation. 

Then ivhy should old ape so much wound ust 
There is nothing in it all to confound us ; 
For how happy now am I, 
With my old wife sitting by. 
And our bairns and our oys cdl around us* 



TAK YOUR AULD CLOAK ABOUT YE. 

A TAUT of this old song, according to the 
English set of it, is quoted in Shakspeare.*— . 
Burns, 

In winter when the rain rain'd cauld. 

And fi-ost and snaw on ilka hill, 
And Boreas, with his blasts sae bauld, 

Was threat'ning a' our ky to kill : 
Then Bell my wife, wha loves na strife, 

She said to me right hastily, 
Get up, goodman, save Cromy's Ufe, 

And tak your auld cloak about ye. 

My Cromie is an usefiil cow, 

And she is come of a good kyne ; 
Aft has she wet the bairns' mou. 

And I am laith that she shou'd t)'ne. 
Get up, goodman, it is fou time, 

The sun shines in the lift sae hie ; 
Sloth never made a gracious end, 

Go tak your auld cloak about ye. 

My cloak was anes a good grey cloak. 

When it was fitting for ray wear ; 
But now it's scantly worth a groat. 

For I have woru't this thirty year ; 
Let's spend the gear tliat we have wou, 

We little ken the day we'll die : 
Then I'll be proud, since I have sworn 

To have a new cloak about me. 



* This tune requires O to be »ddpil at the end of 
eacli of the lonf: Unci, biifrin ic.irtmj tho sung llie O 
is better omitted. 

t C>y»— Grand-chJJi.irci), 



» In the drinking scene in Othello : I ago sings,— 

King Stephen was a worthy peer. 

His liri-cohcs csist him but a crown ; 
He held thtin sixpence all too dear, 

With tliat he called the tailor lown. 
He was a wight of hi.i;h renown. 

And thou .ii t but of low degree ; 
'Tis pride tli::t pulls the country down, 

Then taiie tluue auld cloaii about Ihec. 

The old song fiom which these stanzas wcie lakeit 
was recovered bv Dr. Hcrov, and iireserved bv him iu 
hJ5 JWijwj of diKicnt Poitry. 



136 



BURNS' WORKS. 



In days when our liing Robert rana:, 

His trews they cost but haffa crown; 
He said they were a groat n'c" dear, 

And call'd t'lie taylor thief and loun. 
He was the king tliat wore a crown, 

And thou the man of laigh degree, 
'Tis pride puts a' the country down, 

Sae tak thy auld cloak about tbee. 

Every land has its ain laugh, 

Ilk kind of corn it has its hool, 
I think the warld is a' run wrung, 

When ilka wife her man wad rule ; 
Do ye not see Rob, Jock, and Hab, 

As they are girded gallantly, 
While I sit hurklen in the asc ; 

I'll have a new cloak about me. 

Goodman, I wate 'tis thirty years, 

Siuce we did ane anither ken ; 
And we have had between us twa, 

Of lads and bonny lasses ten : 
Now they are women grown and men, 

I wish and pray well may they be ; 
And if you prove a good husband, 

E'en tak your auld cloak about ye. 

Bell my wife, she loves na strife ; 

But she wad guide me, if she can, 
And to maintain an easy life, 

I aft maun yield, tho' I'm gondman ; 
Nought's to be won at woman's hand, 

Unless ye give her a' the plea ; 
Then I'll leave aff where I began, 

And tak my auld cloak about me. 



JOHNY FAA, OR THE GYPSIE 
LADDIE. 

The people in Ayrshire begin this song— 

The gypsies cam to my Lord CassUis' yett. 

They have a great many more stanzas in this 
Bong than I ever yet saw in any printed copy. 
The castle is still remaining at Maybole, where 
his lordship shut up his wayward spouse, and 
kept her for life. — Burns. 

The gypsies came to our good lord's gate. 
And wow but they sang sweetly ; 

They sang sae sweet, and sae very complete, 
That down came the fair ladle. 

And she came tripping down the stair. 

And a' her maids before her ; 
As soon as they saw her weelfur'd face, 

They coost the glaii^r o'er her. 

" Gar tak fra me this gay mantile, 

And tiring tu nic a plaidie ; 
For if kith and kin and a' had sworn, 

I'll follow the gypsie laddie, < 



" Yestreen I lay in a well-made bed, 

Anil my gimd lord beside ine ; 
This niglit I'll ly in a tenant's b.irn, 

Whatever shall betide nie." 

G)me to your bed, says Johny Fai, 
Oil ! come to ymii bed, my de iry ; 

For I vow and swear by the hilt of uiy sword. 
That your loid shall nae mair come near ye 

" I'll go to bed to my Johny Fai, 
And I'll go tu beil to my deary ; 

For I vow and swear by what past yestreen. 
That my lord shall nae mair come near me. 

" I'll mak a hap to my Juhny Faa, 
And I'll mak a hap to my deary ; 

And he's get a' the coat gaes round, 

And my lord shall nae mair come near me. 

And when our lord came home at e'en, 

And spcir'd for his fair ludy. 
The tane she cry'd, and the other reply'd, 

She's away wi' the gypsie laddie. 

" Gae saddle to me the black, black steedi 
Gae saddle and mak him ready ; 

Before that I cither eat or sleep, 
I'll gae seek my fair lady." 

And wc were fifteen well-made men, 

Altho' we were nae bonny ; 
And we were a' put down for ane, 

A fair young wanton lady. 



TO DAUNTON ME. 

The two following old stanzas to this tone 
have some merit : — ^Bukms. 

To daunton me, to daunton me, 

ken ye what it is that'll daunton me?— 
There's cii^hty eight and eighty nine. 
And a' that I hae born sinsyne. 

There's cess and press and Presbytrie, 

1 think it M'ill do meikle fur to daunton me. 

But to wanton me, to wanton me, 

ken ye what it is that wad wanton me?— > 
To see gude corn upon the rigs, 

And banishment amang the AVhigs, 
And ri};ht restored where rii;!.. ouu be, 

1 think it would do meikle for to wanton me. 



TO DAUNTON ME. 

TiiF.iiK is an old set of the song: not |)oliti 
cal, but veiy iridepeiuleiit. It rujis thus : — 

TiiK tiliidu ri'd rose at Yule may blaw, 
Tlio siiiiuicr lilies bluiue in suaw, 



bONGS. 



lit 



The frost may freeze the (leope:>t sea, 
But an aiild inun sl\ull never il.tiinton me. 
To (laiint'in me, atid me sae ymiriij, 
Wi' liis fause heart and fl.itteiin' tcingue, 
That is the thing ye ne'er shall see, 
For an auld man >.hail never dauuton me. 

For a' his meal, for a' his maut, 
For a' his fresh beef, and his saut, 
For a' his gowd and white monie, 
Au auld man shall never daunton me. 
To daunton nie, &c. 

His gear may buy him kye and yowes. 
His gear may buy him glens and knowes, 
But me he shall not buy nor fee, 
For an auld man shall never daunton mc. 
To dauntoa me, &c. 

He hirples twa fau'd as he dow. 

Wi' his teethless gab, and his bald pow, 

AjkI the rheum rins down frae his red blue e*e, 

But an auld man shall never daunton me. 



THE BONNIE LASS MADE THE BED 
TO ME. 

" The Bonnie Lass made the Bed to me," 
was composed on an amour of Charles IL when 
skulking ia the North, about Aberdeen, in the 
time of the usurpation. He formed tine petite 
affaire with a daughter of the House of Port- 
letham, who was the lass tliat made the bed to 
him : — two verses of it are, 

I kiss'd her lips sae rosy red. 

While the tear stood blinkin in her e'e ; 
I said my lassie dlnna cry, 

For ye ay shall mak the bed to me. 

She took her mither's winding sheet. 

And o't she made a sark to me ; 
Blythe and merry may she be. 

The lass that made the bed to me. 

Burns. 



I HAD A HORSE AND I HAD NAE 
MAIR. 

This story was founded on fact. A John 
Hunter, ancestor to a very respectable fanning 
family who live in a place in the parish, I think, 
of Galston, called Barr-mill, was the luckless 
hero that had a horse and had mte viair. — For 
gome little youthful follies he found it necessary 
to make a retreat to the West-Highlarids, where 
he feed himself to a Hip/ilatid Lnird, for that 
is the expression of all the oral editiims nf the 
song I ever heard. — The present Mr. Hunter, 
who told me the anecdote, is the great-grand- 
child to our hero. — Buk.ns. 



I MAD a horse, and I had nae mair, 

I g.it him frae my da*My ; 
My purse was light, ami my heart WM sair 

But my wit it was fu' ready. 
And sae 1 thought me on a time, 

Outwittens of my <ia<ldy, 
To fee mysel to a l.iwland laird, 

Wua had a bonnie lady. 

I wrote a letter, and thus began, 

" JMadam, be not olfended, 
I'm o'er the lugs in love wi' yon, 

And care not tho' ye kend it : 
For I get little frae the laird. 

And fa,r less frae my daddy, 
And I would blythely be the man 

Would strive to please my lady." 

She read my letter, and she leugh, 

" Ye needna been sae blate, man ; 
You might hae come to me yoursel. 

And tauld me o' your state, man : 
Ye might hae come to me yoursel, 

Outwittens o' ony body. 
And made John Gowkston of the Itdfdi 

And kiss'd his bonnie lady." 

Then she pat siller in my purse. 

We drank wine in a coggie ; 
She feed a man to rub my horse, 

And wow ! but I was vogie. 
But I gat ne'er sa sair a flcg, 

Since I came frae my daddy, 
The laird came, rap rap, to the yett, 

When I was wi' his lady. 

Then she pat me below a chair. 

And happ'd me wi' a plaidie ; 
But I was like to swarf wi' fear. 

And wish'd me wi' my daddy. 
The laird went out, he saw na me, 

I went when I was ready : 
I promis'd, but I ne'er gade back 

To kiss his bonnie lady. 



AULD ROBIN GRAY. 

Trris air was formerly called The bride- 
groom greets when the sun gangs dou)h. The 
words are by Lady Ann Lindsay. — Burns. 

When the sheep are in the fauld, and the ky at 
liame. 

And a' the warld to sleep are gane ; 
The waes of my heart fa' in show'rs frae ijiy cc, 

When my gudeman lyes sound by me. 

Young Jamie loo'd me weel, and he sought me 
for his bride. 
But saving a crown he had naetbing beside • 
To make that croivn a pound, my Jamie tade 
to sea, 
And the crown and the pound were btfith fvf 
uie. 



138 



BUllNS' WORKS. 



He had nae beeu awa a week but only twa, 
When my mother she fell sick, aud the cow 
was stown awa ; 

My father brak his arm, and my Jamie at the sea, 
And auld Robin Gray came a courting me. 

My fether coudna work, and my mother coadna 
spin, 
I toil'd day and night, but their bread I coud- 
na win ; 
Auld Rob maintain'd them baith, and wi' tears 
in his ee, 
Said> " Jenny, for their snke.'i, O marry me." 

My heart it said nay, I look'd for Jamie back, 
But the wind it blew high, and the ship it 
was a wrack ; 

The ship it was a wrack, why didiui Ji>.niiy die, 
And why do I live to say, waes me / 

My father at^ued sair, tho' my mither didna 
speak. 
She look'd in my face till my heart was like 
to break ; 
60 they gi'ed him my hand, tho' my heart was 
in the sea. 
And auld Robin Gray is gudcman to me. 

I hadna been a wife a week but only four, 
When sitting sae mournfully at the i\w<v. 

I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I coudna think it lie, 
'Till he said, " I'm come back for to marry 
thee." 

sair did we greet, and micklc diil we say. 
We took but ae kiss, and we tore ourselves 

away, 
J wish I were dead ! but I'm no like to die. 
And why do I live to say, waes me ! 

1 gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin, 

I darna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin 3 
But I'll do my best a gudewife to be. 
For auld Robin Gray is kind unto rae. 



< UP AND WARN A' WILLIE. 

The expression, " Up and warn a' Willie,'" 
alludes to the Crantara, or warning of a High- 
land Clan to arms. Not understanding this, 
the Lowlanders in the west and south say, " Up 
and waur them a', &c. This edition of the 
song 1 got from Tom Niel,* of facetious fame, 
in Edinburgh. 

Up and warn a', Willie, 

Warn, warn o' ; 
To hear my canty Highland sang, 
Relate the thing I saw, TFittie.— Burns. 



P Tom Niel was a carpenter in Edinburgh, .ind lived 
chiefly by making coffins. He was also Precentor, or 
Clerk, in one of the churches. He had a good strong 
voice, and was greatly distinguished by his powers of 
mimicry, and his humorouB maaaet of BingiDg fhe old 



When we gaed to the braes o' Mar, 

And to the wapon-shaw, Willie, 
Wi' true design to serve the king, 
Aud banish whigs awii, Willie. 
Up and wai'n a', Willie, 
Warn, warn a' ; 
For lords and lairds came there bedeen, 
And wou but they were braw, Willie 

But when the standard was .'•ct up, 

Right fierce the wind did blaw, Willie ; 
The royal nit upon the r.ip 

Down to the giotmd did fa', Willie. 
Up and warn a', Willie, 
Warn, warn a' ; 
Then second-sighted Sandy said. 
We'd do nae gude at a', Willie. 

Bui when the army join'd at Perth, 

The bravest e'er ye saw, Willie, 
We didna doubt the rogues to rout^ 
Restore our king and a', Willie. 
Up aud warn a', Willie, 
Warn, warn a' ; 
The pipers play'd frae right to left, 
O whirry whigs awa, Willie. 

But when we march'd to Sherra-muir, 

And there the rebels saw, Willie, 
Brave Argylc attack'd our right. 
Our dank and front and a", Willie. 
Up and warn a', Willie, 
Warn, warn a' ; 
Traitor Huntly soon gave way, 
Seaforth, St. Clair and a', Willie. 

But brave Glengary on our right. 

The rebels' left did claw, Willie ; ' 
He there the greatest slaughter made 
That ever Donald saw, Willie. 
Up and warn a' Willie, 
Warn, warn a' ; 
And Whittam s — t his breeks for fear. 
And fast did rin awa, Willie. 

For he ca'd us a Highland mob, 

And soon he'd slay us a' Willie, 
But we chas'd him back to Stirling brig, 
Dragoons and foot and a', Willie. 
Up and warn a', Willie, 
Warn, warn a' ; 
At length we rallied on a hill, 
And briskly up did draw, Willie. 

But when Argyle did view our line, 

And them in order saw, Willie, 
He streight gaed to Dumblane again. 
And lack his left did draw, Willie. 
Up and warn a', M'illie, 
Warn, warn a' ; 
Then we to Auchteraider march'd, 
To wait a better fa', Willie. 

Now if ye spear wha wan the day, 
I've teU'd you what I saw, Willie, 



SONGS. 



1S9 



We baith did fight and baith did b«at, 
And baith did rin awa, Willie. 
Up and warn a', Willie, 
Warn, warn a' ; 
For second-sighted Sandic said, 

We'd do nae gude at a*, Willie. 



THE BLYTHSOME BRIDAL. 

I PIKB the Slythsome Sridal in James Wat- 
son's Collection of Scots Poems, printed at 
Edinburgh in 1706. 

This song has humour and a felicity of ex- 
jiression worthy of Ramsay, with even more 
than his wonted -broadness and spri£;htly lan- 
guage. The Witty Catalogue of Names, with 
their Historical Epithets, are done in the true 
Lowland Scottish taste of an age ago, when 
every householder was nicknamed either from 
some prominent part of his character, person, 
or lands and housen, which he rented. Thus — 
" Skapt-Jitted Rob." " Thrawn-moud Hub 
u' the Dubs." " Roarin Jock i' t/ie Swair." 
" Slaverin Simmie o' Todshaw." " Souple 
Kate d' Jrongray" &c &c. — Burns. 

Fy let us all to the bridal. 

For there will be lilting there ; 
For Jockie's to be married to Maggie, 

The lass wi' the gauden hair. 
And there will be lang-kail and potta-^o, 

And bannocks of barley-meal, 
And there will be good sawt herring. 
To relish a cog of good ale. 
Fy let us all to the bridal. 

For there will be liltinff there, • 
For Jockie's to he marry'd tu Maygie, 
The lass toith the yauden Itair. 

And there will be Sandie the sutor. 

And ' Will' with the meikle mow ; 
And there will be Tarn the ' bluter,' 

With Andrew the tinkler, I trow. 
And there will be bow-legged Robbie, 

With thumbless Katie's goodman ; 
And there will be blue-cheeked Dowbie, 

And Lawrie the laird of the laud. 
Fy let us all, Sfc. 

And there will be sow-libber Patie, 

And plouckie-fac'd Wat i' the mtU, 
Capper-nos'd Francie, and Gibbie, 

That wons in the how of the hill ; 
And there will be Alaster Sibbie, 

Wha in with black Bessy did mool. 
With sneevling LilUe, and Tibbie, 

The lass that stands aft on the stool, 
Fy let us all, Sfc. 

And Madge that was buckled to Steenie, 
And coft him [grey] breeks to his arse, 

* Wha after was' hangit for stealing, 
Great m«rcy it ]iapp«Q«<l na wane : 



And there will be gleed Geordie Janners, 
And Kirsh wi' the lily-white leg, 

Wha ' gade* to the south for manners, 
And bang'd up her wame in Mons Meg. 
Fy let us all, §-c. 

And there will be Judan Maclawrie, 

And blinkic daft Barbra ' Macleg,* 
Wi' flae-lugged, sharny-fac'd Lawrie, 

And shangy-moii'd halucket Meg. 
And there will be happer-ars'd Nansy, 

And fairy-fac'd Fiowrie be name, 
Muck Madie, and fat-hipped Lizie, 

The lass with the gauden wame 
Fy let us all, Sec. 

And there will bo girn-again Gibbie, 

With his glakit wife Jennie Bell, 
And lAlislo-shiun'd Mungo Macapie, 

The lad that was skipper himsel. 
There lads and lasses in pearlings 

Will feast in the heart of the ha', 
Ou sybows, and ryfarts, and carlings. 

That are baith sodden and raw. 
Fy let us oM, S^c. 

And there wiU be fadges and brachen, 

With fouth of good gappoks of skate, 
Pow-sodie, and drammock, and crowdie, 

And callour nout-feet in a plate ; 
And tliure will ho partans and buckics. 

Suddens and whytens enew, 
And singed sheep-heads, and a haggize. 

And scadlips to sup till ye spew. 
Fy let us all, ^x. 

And there will be lapper'd-milk kebbucks, 

And sowens, and farles, and baps, 
Witli swats, and well-scraped paunches. 

And brandy in stoups and in caps; 
And there will be meal-kail and castocks, ' 

With skink to sup till ye rive j 
And rosts to rost on a brander. 

Of flouks that were taken alive. 
Fy let us all, Sfc. 

Scrapt haddocks, wilks, dilse, and tangles, 

And a mill of good snishing to prie ; 
When weary with eating and drinJdng, 
We'll rise up and dance till we die. 
Then fy let us all to the bridal. 

For there will be lilting there ; 
For Jockie's to be marry'd to Jtfagjfy, 
The lass toith the gauden Aqir. 



O CAN YE LABOUR LEA, VOUNG 

MAN. 

This song has long been known among the 
inhabitants of Nithsdale and Galloway, where 
it is a great favourite. The first vene should 

be restored to its onginal Btate. 



140 



BURNS* WORKS. 



I rr.r.n u Ind ;it RdddsmaK, 

Wi' sillt'i- peiiliiesi tliiTe ; 
Wlu-n he caiiie home at iMartinniass, 

He fould riae lalidiir lea. 

caniia ye labour lea, young lad, 
O caiitia ye lahiiiir lea ? 

Indeed, quo' he, my hand's out — 
An' up hi8 graith packed he. 

This old way is the truest, for the terms, 
Riinilmass is the hiring; fair, and Hullowmass 
iUtJirst of the half ye.ir. — Buu.vs. 

1 FEED a man at Martinmas*, 

Wi* arle-pennies three ; 
But a' the faute I had to liiin, 

He could nae labour lea. 
O can ye labour lea, youny rufin, 

O can ye labour ka ? 
Gac back the giite ye cnnie nr;ain, 
Ye'se never scurn me. 

O clappin's gude in Fel)ar;var, 

An' kJssins sweet in 5Iay ; 
But what signifie.s a young man'.i love 

An't diniia last for ay. 
O can ye, ^c. 

O kmsin is the k*y of hive, 

Ah clappin is the lock, 
An' makin-of's the hpst thiiii,' 

That e'er a young thinTj got. 
O can ye, frr. 



IN THE GARr, OF OLD GAUL. 

This tune was the composition of General 
Reid, and ealled by him The Highland, or 42d 
Meffimenf^ii March, The words are by Sir 
Harry Efukjoc. — BuRVs. 

In the garb of old Gaul, wi' the fire of old 

Rome, 
From the heath-cover'd moitntains of Scotia we 

come. 
Where the Romans endeavoiir'd our country to 

gaitj, 
^ut our atice^tbrt fought, and thpy fought not 
in raiti. 
Such our love oflihertij, our country, and 

nur lateSi 
That like our ancestors of old, we stand 

by Freedom's cause ; 
We'll hravdy Jiglit like heroes hold, for 

honour and applause. 
And defy the French, tcith all their art, 
to alter our laws, 

No effeminate customs our sinews unbrace, 

No luxurious tables enervate our race, 

Our loud-sounding pipe bears the true martial 

strainj 
^ Ho we the old Scottish valour retain. 
Such our Iwe, ^. 



We're tall a* rhe oak on the mount of thtt vale, 
As swift us the me which the hoiind doth aSKail, 
As the full -moon in autumn our shields do ap- 

pe.r, 
Minerva wculd dread to encounter our apuar. 
Such our love, ffe. 

As a storm in the ocean when Boreas blows. 
So are we enrag'd when wc rush on our foes ; 
We sons of the mountains, treuiendou-^ as rock*, 
Dash the force of our foes with our thundering 
strokes. 

Such our love, ^c. 

Quebec and Cape Breton, the pride of old 

France, 
In their troops fondly boasted till we did ad- 
vance ; 
But when our claymores they saw ua producOt 
Their cnurage did fail, and they sued for a truce. 
Such our love, jfc. 

In our realm may the fury of faction long cease. 
May our councils be wise, and our commerce 

increase ; 
And in Scotia's cold climate may each of us find, 
That our friends still prove true, and our beau- 
ties prove kind. 
Then wcUl defend otir liberty, our country, 

and our laws. 
And teach our late posterity to fight in 

Freedom's cause. 
That they like our ancestors bold, ^e. 



WOO'D AND MARRIED AND A*. 

Wtw'd and married and a', 
Woo'd and married and a'. 

Was she not very weel off. 

Was woo'd and married and o* / 

The bride came out o' the byre. 

And O as she dighted her cheeks, 
" Sirs, I'm to be married the eight, 

And has nouther blanket nor sheets; 
Has nouther blankets nor sheets, 

Nor scarce a coverlet too ; 
The bride that has a' to borrow. 

Has e'en right meikle ado." 

Woo'd and married, ffc. 

Out spake the bride's father, 

As he came in frae the pleugh, 
" O had yere tongue, my daughter, 

And yese get gear enough ; 
The stirk that stands i' the tether. 

And our bra* baslu'd yade, 
Will carry ye hame yere corn ; 

What wad ye be at ye jade ?" 

Woo'd and married, ^c. 

Outspake the bride's mither, 
" What deU needs a' this pride ? 



SONTGS 



I had nae a plack in my poucn 

That night I was a bride ; 
My ^wn was linsy-woolsy, 

And ne'er a sark ava, 
And ye hae riltboas and buskins 

Mair than ans or twa. " 

Wood and married, Sec. 

" What's the matter ?" quo' Willie, 

" The' we be scant o' claiths, 
We'll creep the nearer thegither, 

And we'll smoor a' the fleas ; 
Simmer is coming on, 

And we'll get teats o' woo ; 
And we'll get a lass o' our ain, 

And »he'll spin claiths anew." 

Woo'd and married, ^f. 

Outspake the bride's brither, 

As he came in wi' the kye, 
" Puir Willie had ne'er hae ta'en ye, 

Had he kent yc as weel as I ; 
For you're baith proud and saucy, 

And no for a puir man's wife, 
Oin I canna get a better, 

I'iC never take ane i' my life." 

Wvo'd and married, §r. 

Outspakc the bride's sister, 

As she came in frae the byre, 
" O gin I were but married. 

It's a' that I desire ; 
But we puir folk maun live single. 

And do the best we can ; 
I dinna care what I should want, 
If I could but get a man." 
Woo^d and married and a', 

Woo'd and married and a', 
Wat the not very weel aff, 

Was looo'd and married and o*. 



•I*' 



THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST. 

A stJCCESSFUi. imitation of an old song is 
really attended with less difficulty than to con- 
vince a blockhead that one of these Je;/ d'e.iprils 
it a forgery. This fine ballad is even a more 
palpable imitation than Hardikuute. The 
manners indeed aie old, but the language is nf 
yesterday. Its author must very soon be dis- 
covered. — Burns. 

BY JAM ELLIOT. 

I'vK heard a lilting 
At the ewes milking, 
Lasses % lilting l>efore the break o' day, 
But now I hear moaning 
On ilka green lo,ining, 
Since our brave Forresters are a' wed away. 

At buchts in the morning 
If** blythe lad* are scorning ; 



The lasses are lonely, dowie and wae '. 

Nae daffin, nae gabbing, 

But sighing and s^aljljing, 

Ilk ane lifts her leglin, and hies her away. 

At e'en in the glnming 
Nae swankie;* are roaming, 
'.Mang stacks with the lasses at bogle to play j 
For ilk ane sits drearie. 
Lamenting her dearie, 
The flow'rs o' the forest wh' are a* wed away. 

In har'st at the shearing 
Nae biythe lails are jeciiug, 
The Bansters are lyart, and runkled, and grey ; 
At fairs nor at preachinir, 
Nae wooing, nae fleeching. 
Since our bra foresters are a' wed away. 

O dule for the order ! 
Sent our lads to the border ! 
The English fur anes, by guile wan the day : 
The flow'rs of the forest 
Wha aye shone tht foremost, 
The prime of the land lie cauld in the cUt. 



THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST. 

8V MKS. COCKBUR'S. 

I've seen the (-miling of fortune b,.'guiling, 
I've tasted her favours, and felt her decay ; 

Sweet is her blessing, and kind her caressing, 
But soon it is (led— it is fled far away. 

I've seen the forest adorned of the foremost, 
With flowers of the fairest, both pleasant and 
gay: 
Full sweet was their blooming, their soeat tba 
air perfuming, 
But now they are withcr'd, and a' wede swae. 

I've seen the morning, with gold the hilh a- 

dorning. 
And the red storm roaring, before the parting 

day ; 
I've seen Tweed's silver streams, glittering in 

the sunny beams, 
Turn drumly and dark, as they rolled on their 

way. 

O fickle fortune f why this cruel sporting? 
Why thus perplex us poor sons of a day ? 
Thy IruwDs cannot fear uie, thy smiles caoiipt 
cheer nie. 
Since the flowers of the forest are a' wede 
awae. 



U9 



BURNS' WORKS. 



^ifiBtE DUNfiAR. 

■• Tune—" Johnny M'Gili." 

Tais tune is said to be the composition 6f 
John M'Gili, fiddler, ia Giivan. He calleJ it 
after his own name. — Burns. 

O, WILT thou go wi' me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar ; 

O, wilt thou go wi' me, sweet Tibbie Dun- 
bar ; 
Wilt thou ride on a horse, or be drawn in a car, 

Or walk by my side, O sweet Tibbie Dunbur ? 

I carena thy daddie, his lands and his money, 
I carena thy kin, sae high and sae lordly : 

But say thou wilt hae me for better for waur, 
And come in thy coatie, sweet Tibbie Dun- 
bar! 



, THIS IS NO MINE AIN HOUSE. 

The first half stanza is old, the rest is Rara- 
My's. The old words are : — Burks. ■ 

O THIS is no mine ain house, 

My ain house, my ain house ; 
This is no mine ain house, 

I ken by the biggin o't. 

There's bread and cheese are ray door-cheeks. 
Are my door-cheeks, are my door-cheeka ; 

There's bread and cheese are my door-cheeks ; 
And pan-cakes the riggin o't. 

This is no my ain wean. 

My ain wean, my ain wean ; 
This is no my ain wean, 

I ken by the greetie o't. 

I'll tak the curchie aiF my head, 

Aff my head, nS my head ; 
I'll tak the curchie aff my head. 

And row't about the feetie o't. 

The tune is an old Highland air, called Shttan 
trui$h loillighan. 



THE GABERLUNZIE-MAN. 

The Gaberlunzie-Man is supposed to com- 
memorate an intrigue of James the Fifth. Mr. 
Callander of Craigforth, published some years 
Sgo, an edition of ChrhVi Kirk on the Green, 
and the Gaherlunzte-Man, with notes critical 
and historical. James the Fifth is said to have 
been fond of Gosfoid, in Aberlady Parish, and 
that it was susi)ected by lus cotemporaries, that 
in his frequent excursions to that part of the 
country he had other purposes in view besides 
golfing and archery. Three favourite ladies, 



Sandilands, Weir, and Oliphaftt, (Hue ot tketH 
resided at Gosford, and the others in the neigh' 
bourhood), were occasionally visited by their 
royal and gallant admirer, which gave rise to 
the following satirical advice to his Majesty, 
from Sir David Lindsay, of the Mount, Lord 
Lyon. 

Sow not your seed on Sandylands, \ 

Spend not your streu^th in Weir, [, 

And ride not on an Elephant, \ 

For spoiling o' your gear. — Burns. *: 



The pawky auld carle came o'er the lee, 
Wi' many good e'ens and days to me, 
Saying, Goodwife, for your courtesie. 

Will ye lodge a silly poor man ! 
The night was cauld, the carle was wat. 
And down ayont the ingle he sat ; 
IMy daughter's shoulders he 'gan to clap, 

And cadgily ranted and sang. 

O wow ! quo' he, were I as free, 
As first when I saw this country. 
How blyth and merry wad I be ! 

And I wad never think lang. 
He g^ew canty, and she grew fain ; 
But little did her auld minny ken 
What thir slee twa togither were say'n. 

When wooing they were sae thrang. 

And ! quo' he, ann ye were as black 
As e'er the crown of my dady's hat, 
'Tis I wad lay thee by ray back. 

And awa' wi' me thou shou'd gang. 
And O ! quo' she, ann I were as white^ 
As e'er the snaw lay on the dike, 
I'd dead nie braw, and lady like, 

And awa' with thee I'd gang. 

Between the twa was made a plot ; 
They raise awee before the cock. 
And wilily they shot the lock. 

And fast to the bent are they gane. 
Up the morn the auld wife raise. 
And at her leisure put on her claise ; 
Syne to the servant's bed she gaes. 

To speer for the silly poor man._] 

She gaed to the bed where the beggar lay. 
The strae was cauld, he was away. 
She clapt her hand, cry'd Waladay, 

For some of our gear will be gane. 
Some ran to coffers, and some to kists, '' 
But nought was stown that cou'd be mist, 
She danc'd her lane, cry'd, Praise be bleat, ' 

I have lodg'd a leal poor man. 

Since nathing's awa', as we can learn, 
The kirn's to kirn, and milk to earn, 
Gae butt the house, lass, and waken my bain^ 
And bid her come quickly ben. 



SONCJS. 



119 



tlie SefViiht gido ^liei-6 til? tlaUglitei' lay, 
*rhe sheets w;is eaiiU), she was an'ay, 
And fast ti> hor goodtt-iTi! gaii says 
She's ailFwith the G.iboiluuzie-niail. 

O fy gar rule, and fy gar rin, 

And haste ye tinJ these traytors again ; 

For she's l>e biirnt, and he's be slaiu, 

The wearifu' Gaberhiruie-inan. 
Some rade iipo' horse, Koine run a fit, 
The wife was wood, and out o' her wit : 
She coii'd na gans;, nor yet cou'd she sit, 

But ay she cuis'd and she ban'd. 

IMean time far hind out o'er the les, 

Fu' snug in a glen, where nane cou'd see, 

The twa, with kindly sport and glee, 

Cut frae a new cheese a wliang : ij 
The priving was good, it pleas'd them baith, 
To lo'e her for ay, he gae her his aith ; 
Quo' she, to leave thee I will be laith, 

My winsome Gaberlunzie-man. 

O kend my minny I were wi' you, 
IlUardly wad she crook her mou. 
Sic a poor man she'd never trow, 

After the Gaberlunzie-man. 
My dear, quo* he, ye're yet o'er young. 
And ha' nae lear'd the beggar's tongue, 
To follow me frae town to town. 

And carry the Gaberlunzie on. 

Wi' cauk and keel I'll win your bread, 

And spindles and whorles for them wha need, 

Whilk is a gentle trade indeed, 

To carry the Gaberlunzie — O. 
I'll bow my leg, and crook my knee, 
And draw a black clout o'er my eye, 
A cripple or blind they will ca' me, 

While we shall be merry and sing. 



Wlien CWlie lootM tlie leilel' Updfl, 
He drew his sword the scabbard from, \ 
Con\c follow me, my merry juerry men. 
Ami we'll meet wi' Coup 1' the morning. 
Hei/ Jonnie Coup, §t. 

Now, Jonnie, be as good as your word. 
Come let us try both fire and sword. 
And dinna rin awa' like a frighted bird. 
That's chas'd frae it's nest in the morning, 
Heij Jonnie Coup, Sfc. 

When Jonnie Coup he heard of this. 
He thought it wadna be amiss 
To hae a horse in readiness, 
To file awa' i' the morning. 

Hey Jonnie Coup, ifc. 

Fy now Jonnie get up and rin, ' 

The Highland bagpipes makes a din, 
It's best to sleep in a hale skin. 
For 'twill be a bluddie morning. 

Hey Jonnie Coup, §r. 

When Jonnie Coup to Berwick came, 
They spear'd at him, where's a* your men, 
The deil confound me gin I ken, 
For I left them a' i' the morning. 

Hey Jonnie Coup, Ift. 

Now, Jonnie, trouth ye was na blate, 
To come wi' the news o* your ain defeat, 
And leave your men in sic a strait. 
So early in the morning. 

Hey Jonnie Coup, S^c, 

Ah ! faith, CO* Jonnie, I got a fleg. 
With their claymores and philabegs, 
If I face them again, deil break my legs, 
So I wish you a good morning. 

Hey Jonnie Coup, Sfc. 



' JONNIE COUP. 

Tms Satirical song was composed to comme- 
morate General Cope's defeat at Preston-Pans, 
in 1745, when he marched against the clans. 

The air was the tune of an old song, of which 
I have heard some verses, but now only remem- 
ber the title, which was, 

Will ye go to the coals in the morning. 
Burns. 



Cou? sent a letter frae Dunbar, 
Charlie, meet me an ye dare, 
And I'll learn you the art of war. 
If you'll meet wi' me in the morning. 

Hey Jonnie Coup, are ye waking yet ? 

Or are your drums a-heating yet ? 

Jfye were waking Iwoud wait 

To gang to the coals i* the morning. 



A WAUKRIFE MINNIE. 

I PICKED up this old song and tune irom a 
country girl in Nithsdale. — I never met with it 
elsewhere in Scotland. — Burns. 

Whare are you gaun, my bonnle lass, 

Where are you gaun, my hinnie, 
She answer'd me right saucilie, 

An errand for my minnie. 

O whare live ye, my bonnic lass, 

O whare live ye, my hinnie, 
By yon burn-side, gin ye maun ken« 

In a wee house wi' my minnie. 

But I foor up the glen at een. 

To see my bonnie lassie ; 
And lang before the gray mom cam, 

She was na hauf sae saucie. 



iH 



BURNS' WORKS. 



O weary fa' tVie waulcrlfe cock, 
And the foumart lay liis crawin ! 

He wauken'd the auld wife fiue her sleep, 
A wee blink or the dawiu. 

An angry wife I wat she raise. 

And o'er the bed she brought her j 

And wi' a mickle hazle ruug 

She made her a weel pay'd dochter. 

O fare thee weel, my bonnie lass ! 

O fare thee weel, my hinnie ! 
Thou art a gay and a bonnie lass, 

Sut thou hast a waukrife minnie.* 



TULLOCHGORUM, 

This, first of songs, is the master-piece of 
my old friend Skinner. He was passing the day 
at the town of Ellon, I think it was, in a friend's 

house whose name was Monrgomery Mrs. 

Montgomery observing, en passant, that the 
beautiful reel of Tullochgorum wanted words, 
she begged them of Mr. Skinner, who gratified 
her wishes, and the wishes of every lover of 
Scottish song, in this most excellent ballad. 

These particulars I had from the author's 
•on. Bishop Skinner, at Aberdeen. — BuaNs. 

Come gie's a sang, Blontgomery cry'd. 
And lay your disputes all aside, 
What signifies't for folks to chide 

For what was done before them : 
Let Whig and Tory all agree, 

Whig and Tory, Whig and Tory, 
Whig and Tory all agree, 

To drop their Whig- raig-morum. 
Let Whig and Tory all agree 
To spend the night wi' mirth and glee, 
And cheerful sing alang wi' nies 

The Reel o' Tullochgorum. 

O, Tulloehgorum's my delight, 
It gars us a' in ane unite, 
Aiid ony sumph that keeps up spite. 
In conscience I abhor him : 
For blythe and cheerie we'll be a', 

BIythe and cheerie, blytiu; anil cheerie, 
Blythe and cheerie we'll he a', 
And make a happy qiiDriiin, 
For blythe and cheerie we'll he a', 
As lang as we hae breath to dciu-, 
And dance till we be like to fa' 

The Reel o' Tulluch<'orum. 



• The peasantry have averse superior to somo of 
!_JM ''''^■°^'*''^'' ^y Hums, whieh ii worthy of notice. 

" O thoiigli thy h.iir wa? gowilen weft, 

An' thy lips o' (Irappiii^ luniiie, 
Thou hiist jioten ihe e og Ui;it wiiina cliiw 

For a' you're waukrifc mimiic." " 



What needs there be sae great a fralse* 
Wi' drinf^ing dull Italian lays, 
I wadna gie our ain Strathspeys 

For half a hunder score o' them. 
They're dowf and dowie at the best, 
Dowf and dowie, dowf and dowie, 
Dowf and dowie at the best, 
Wi' a' their variorum ; 
They're dowf and dowie at the best, 
Their allegros and a' the rest. 
They canna please a Scottish taste, 
Compar'd wi' Tullochgorum. 

Let warldly worms their minds oppress 
Wi' fears o' want and double cess, 
And sullen sots themsells distress 
Wi' keeping up decorum : 
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit. 

Sour and sulky, sour and sulky, 
Sour and sulky shall we sit 
Like old philosophorum ! 
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit, 
Wi' neither sense, nor mirth, nor wit, 
Nor ever try to shake a fit 

To the Reel o' Tullochgorum ? 

Jlay choicest blessings ay attend 
Each honest, open-hearted friend, 
And calm and quiet be his end. 

And a' that's good watch o'er him ; 
IMay peace and plenty be his lot. 

Peace and plenty, peace and plenty, 
Peace and plenty be his lot. 

And dainties a great store o' them; 
May peace and plenty be his lot, 
Unstain'd by any vicious spot. 
And may he never want a groat. 

That's fond o' Tullochgorum ! 

But for the sullen frumpish fool, 
That loves to be oppression's tool, 
May envy gnaw his rotten soul, 

And discontent devour him ; 
May dool and sorrow be his chance, 

Dool and sorrow, dool and sorrow, 
Dool and sorrow be his chance, 
And nane say, wae's me for him ! 
May dool and sorrow be his chance, 
Wi' a' the ills that come frae France, 
Wha e'er he be that winna dance 
The Reel o' Tullochgorum. 



JOHN O' BADENYON. 



THts excellent song is also the compositioD 
of my worthy friend, old Skinner, at Liush»rt. 
— Burns. 

Whkv first I cam to he a man 

Of twenty years or so, 
I thmijrjir iiiysrlf a hanilsome youth, 
And lain the world would know J 



SONGS. 



145 



In but attire I stept atiioad, 

With spirits bri:^k and gay, 
And her«> and there and eveiy where 

Was like a morn in M.iy ; 
No care I had nor fear of want, 

But rambled up and down, 
And for a. beau I might have past 

In country or in town ;' 
I still was pleas'd where'er I went. 

And when I was alone, 
I tun'd my pipe and pleas'd myself 

Wi' John o' Badenyou. 

Now in the days of youthful prime 

A mistress I must find, 
For love, I heard, gave one an air, 

And ev'n improved the mind : 
On Phillis fair above the rest 

Kind fortune fist my eyes, 
Her piercing beauty struck my heart. 

And she became my choice ; 
To Cupid now with hearty prayer 

1 oflFer'd many a vow ; 
And danc'd and sung, and sigh'd, and swore. 

As other lovers do ; 
But, when at last I breath'd my flame, 

I found her cold as stone ; 
I left the girl, and tun'd my pips 

To John o' Badenyon, 

When love had thus my heart beguil'd 

With foolish hopes and vuin ; 
To friendship's port I steer'd my course. 

And laugh'd at lovers' pain ; 
A friend 1 got by lucky chance, 

'Twas something like divine, 
An honest friend's a precious gift, 

And such a gift was mine ; 
Ajid now whatever might betide, 

A happy man was I, 
In any strait I knew to whom 

I freely might apply ; 
A strait soon came : my friend I try'd ; 

He heard, and spurn'd my moan ; 
I hy'd me home, and tun'd my pijie 

To John o' Badenyon. 

Methought I should be wiser next. 

And Wduld a patriot turn. 
Began to doat on Johnny Wilkes, 

And cry up Pai-son Home.* 
Their manly spirit I adiiiii'd. 

And pruis'd their uolile ze;i1. 
Who had with flaming tongue and pen 

Maintaiu'd the public weal ; 
But e'er a month or two bad jiast, 

I found myself iH-truy'd, 
'Twas sr/f and party alter all. 

For a' the ftir they nmde ; 
At last I saw thv factious knaves 

la^ult the very throne, 
I curii'd them a', and tun'd my pipe 

To John o' Badenyon, 



What next to do T mus'd a wliila^ 

Still hoping to succeed, 
I pitch'd on liooks for company, 

And gravely try'd to read : 
I bought and borrow'd every where, 

And study'd night and day. 
Nor niiss'd what dean or doctor wrote 

That happcn'd in my way : 
Philosophy I now esteem'd 

The ornament of youth. 
And carefully through many a page 

I hunted after truth. 
A thousand various schemes I try'd, 

And yet was jileas'd with none, 
I threw them by, and tun'd my pipe 

To John o' Badenyon. 

And now ye youngsters every where, 

That wish to make a show, 
Take heed in time, nor fondly hope 

For happiness below ; 
What you may fancy pleasure here. 

Is but an empty name. 
And girls, and friends, and looks, and ao, 

You'll find them all the same ; 
Then 'be advised and warning take 

From such a man as me ; 
I'm neither Pope nor Caidinal, 

Nor one of high degree ; 
You'll meet displeasure every where , 

Then do as I have done. 
E'en tune your pipe and please yourselves 

With John o' Badenyon. 



THE LAIRD OF COCKPEN. 

Here is a verse of this lively old song that 
used to be sung after the^e printed «nea.-> 
Burns. 

O, WHA has lien wi' our Lord yestreen ? 
O, wha lias lien wi' our Lord yestreen ? 
In his soft down bed, O, twa fowk were the tted, 
An' whare lay the chamber maid, lassie, yes- 
treen ? 



• This song was com|iosc«l when Wilkes, Hurac, 
tec. were mekiiig a nui:>e about litx;rty. 



COCKPEN, 

O, WHEN she came ben she boblied fu' law, 
O, when she came ben she bolilH-d fu' law. 
Anil when shf came ben >he ki»s'd Cockpen, 
And syne deny'd she did it at s'. 

And was tut C>)ckpen right saucie with a', 
And was na Ci'ck|H'n right i^iucie with •', 
III leaving the ilaiiglitcr of o Lnrd, 
And kissiu a collier lassie, an' a' i 

O never look down my lassie, at a « 

O never look down my lassie, at a', 

I'liy li|iH are a.'* sweet, and thy figure conpblt^ 

As the finest dauie in castle or La'< 



ue 



Tho* tliou La6 fiae silk and Lolland sae sma', 
Tho' thou has nae silk and holland sae sma', 
Thy coat and thy sark are thy aia handy-watk, 
And Lady Jean was never sae braw ! 



BURNS' WORKS. 

CA' THE EWES TO THE KNOWE«.' 



The following set of this song is now very 
common. It is ascribed to the authoress of the 
novel of " Marriage :" 

THE LAIRD OF COCKPEN. 

run*—" The Laird of Cockpen," 

The Laird o' Cockpen, he is proud an' he's 

great ; 
His mind is ta'en up wi' the tilings of the state : 
He wanted a wife his braw house to keep ; 
But favour wi' wooin' was fashions to seek. 

Down by the dyke-side a lady did dwell ; 
At his tablc'head he thought she'd look well ; 
M'Leish's ae daughter o' Claverse-ha' Lee, 
A pennyleis lass wi' a lang pedigree. 

His wig was weel pouther'd, as guid as when 

new, 
His waistcoat was white, his coat it was blue ; 
He put on a ring, — a sword, — and cock'd hat, — 
And wha* could refuse the Laird wi' a' that ? 

He took the grey mare and rade cannalie ; 
And rapp'd at the yett o' Claverse-ha' Lee : 
Gae tell Mistress Jean to come speedily ben : 
She's wanted to speak wi' the Laird o' Cockpen. 

Mistress Jean she was makin' the elder-flower 

.wine ; 
" And what brings the Laird at sic a like time ?" 
She put aff her apron, and on her silk gown, 
Her mutch wl' red ribbons, and gaed awa' 

down. 

And when she cam' ben, he booed fu' low ; 
And what was his errand he soon let her know ; 
Amazed was the Laird, when the lady said Na', 
And wi' a laigh curtsle she turned awa*. 

Dumbfounder'd he was, but nae sigh did he gie ; 
He mounted his mare, and rade cauniUe : 
And aften he thought, as he gaed thro' the glen. 
She's daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen. 

And now that the Laird his exit had made, 
Mistress Jean she reflected on what she had said : 
Oh for ane I'll get better, It's waur I'll get ten, 
I was daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen. 

Neist time that the Laird and the lady were seen, 
They were gaun arm in arm to the kiik on the 

green ; 
Now she sits in the Ha' like a weel-tapplt hen ; 
But as yet there's nae chickens appeared at 

Cockpen, 



This lieautiful song is in the true old Scotch 
taste, yet I do not know that either air or words 
were iu print before — Burns. 

CcC the ewes to the knowes, 

Ca' them whare the heather grows 

Ca' them whare the burnie rotves, 
My bonnie dearie. 

As I gaed down the water-side, 

There I met my shepherd lad, 
He row'd me sweetly in his plaid, 

An' he ca'd me his dearie. 
Ca' the ewes, Sfc, 

Will ye gang down the water-side, 
And see the waves sae sweetly glide, 

Beneath the hazels spreading wide. 
The moon it shines fu' clearly. 
Ca' the ewes, Sfc. 

I was bred up at nae sic school. 
My shepherd lad, to play the fool. 

And a' the day to sit in dool, 
And naebody to see me. 
Ca' the ewes, 8^c. 

Ye sail get gowns and ribbons meet, 
Cauf-leather shoon upon your feet, 

And in my arms ye'se He and sleep. 
And ye sail be my dearie. 
Ca' the ewes, |*c. 

If ye'll but stand to what ye've said, 
I'se gang wl' you my shepherd-lad, 

And ye may rowe me In your plaid. 
And I sail be your dearie. 
Ca' the ewes, Sfc. 

While waters wimple to the sea ; 

While day blinks in the lift sae hie ; 
'Till clay-cauld death sail blln my e'e, 

Ye sail be my dearie.* 

Ca' the ewes, Sfc. 



LADIE MARY ANN. 

The starting verse should be restored ;— 
Burns. 

" Lady Mary Ank gaed out o' her bower. 
An' she found a bonnie rose new i' the flower ; 

As she kiss'd its ruddy lips drapplng wi* dew, 
Quo' she, ye're nae sae sweet as my Charlie's 



• Mrs. Bums informed the Editor that the last verss 
of this song was written by Bums. 



SONGSi 



147 



Ikbm MARY ANN, 



Labv Mary Ann looks o'er the castle wa', 
She saw three >>nnnie boys playini^ at the ba'V 
The youngfe-4t ne was the flower amang them a ; 
My boonie laddie's young, but he's growin' 
yet. 

" O father, O father, an' ye think it fit, 
We'll send him a year to the college yet ; 
We'll sew a green ribbon round about his hat, 
And that will let them ken he's to marry yet." 

Lady Mary Ann was a flower in the dew. 
Sweet was its smell, and bonnie was its hue, 
And the langer it blossomed, the sweeter it grew ; 
For the lily in the bud will be bounier yet. 

Young Charlie Cochran was the sprout of an 

aik, 
Bonnie, and bloomiug, and straight was its make, 
The sun took delight to shine for its sake, 
And it will be the brag o' the forest yet. 

The simmer is gane, when the leaves they were 
green ; 

And the days are awa that we hae seen ; 

But far better days, I trust, will come again. 
For my bonnie laddie's young, but he's grow- 
in' yet. 



KILLYCRANKY. 

' The battle of Killycranky was the last stand 
loaade by the Clans for James, after his abdica- 
tion. Here Dundee fell in the moment of vic- 
tory, and with him fell the hopes of the party, 
•—General Mackay, when he foimd the High- 
landers did not pursue his flying army, said, 
" Dundee must be killed, or he never would 
have overlooked this advantage." — A great stone 
marks the spot where Dundee fell. — Buhns. 

Clavkrs and his highland-men. 

Came down upo' the raw, man, 
Who being stout, gave mony a clout, 

The lads began to claw, then. 
With sword and terge into their hand, 

Wi* which they were nae slaw, man, 
Wi' mony a fearful heavy sigh. 

The lads began to claw, then. 

i O'er bush, o'er bank, o'er ditch, o'er stank, 

She flang amang them a', man ; 
The butter-box got mony knocks, 

Their riggings paid for a' then ; 
They got their paiks, wi* sudden straiks. 

Which to their g rief they saw, man ; 
'Wi' clinkum clankum o'er their crowns, 

The lads began to fa' then. 

Hor skipt about, hur leapt about. 
And flang amang them a', man ; 



The Eilgiisli blades got bi'oken bcaJs, * 
Their crowns were cleav'd in twa then« 

The durk and door made their last hour. 
And prov'd their final fa, man ; 

They thought the devil had been there. 
That play'd them sic a paw then. 

The solemn league and covenant 

Came whigging up the hills, man. 
Thought highland trews durst not refuse 

For to subscribe their bills then : 
In Willie's name * they thought nae ane 

Durst stop their course at a', man ; 
But hur nane sell, wi* mony a knock, 

Cry'd, Furich-whiggs, awa', man. ; 

Sir Evan Du, and his men true, 

Came linking up the brink, man ; 
The Hogan Dutch they feared such. 

They bred a horrid stink, then. 
The true Maclean, and his fierce men,' 

Came in amang them a', man ; 
Nane durst withstand his heavy hand, 

All fled and ran awa* then. 

Oh' on a ri, oh' on a ri, 

Why should she lose king Shames, man ? 
Oh' rig in di, oh' riff in di. 

She shall break a* her banes then ; 
With/Mnc/u'n/sA, an' stay a while, 

And speak a word or twa, man, 
She's gi' a straike, out o'er the neck. 

Before ye win awa' then. 

O fy for shame, ye're three for ane, 

Hur nane-sell's won the day, man ; 
King Shame's red-coats should be hung up. 

Because they ran awa' then : 
Had bent their brows, like highland trows. 

And made as lang a stay, man. 
They'd sav'd their king, that sacred thing. 

And Willie'd ' run' awa' then. 



THE EWIE Wr THE CROOKIT HORN 

Another excellent song of old Skinner's.— 
Burns. 

Were I but able to rehearse 
My Ewie's praise in proper verse, 
I'd sound it forth as louJ and fierce 

As ever piper's drone could blaw ; -^ 
The Ewie wi' the crookit horn, 
Wha had kent her might hae sworn ; 

Sic a Ewe was never bom. 

Hereabout nor far awa', 
Sic a Ewe was never born, 

Hereabout nor far awa'. 

I never needed tar nor keil 
To mark her upo' hip or heel, 



♦ Prince of Orange, 



149 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Her crookit liorn i.\i as weel 

To ken her by uino' them a' ; 
She never threaten'd scab nor rot, 
But kee|>it ay her ain jog trot, 
Baith to the fauld and to the coat, 

Was never sweir to lead nor caw, 
Baith to the fauld and to the coat, Sec. 

CaulH nor hunger never dang her, 
Wind nor wet could never wrang her, 
Anes she lay an ouk and langer, 

Furth aneath a wreath o' snaw : 
Whan ither Ewies lap the dyke. 
And eat the kail for a' the tyke. 
My Ewie never play'd the like. 

But tyc'd al)out the barn wa' ; 
My Ewie never piay'd the like, &c. 

A better or a thriftier beast, 

Nae honest man could weel hae wiat. 

For silly thing she never mist, 

To hae iik year a lamb or twa' ;■ 
The first she had I gae to Jock, 
To be to him a kind o' stock, 
And now the laddie has a flock 

O' mair nor thirty head ava' ; 
And now the laddie has a flock, &c. 

1 lookit aye at even' for her. 

Lest mischanter shoii'd come o'er her, 

Or the fowmait might devour her, 

Gin the beastie bade awa ; 
My Ewie wi' the crookit horn, 
Well deserv'd baith girse and corn, 
Sic a Ewe was never born, 

Here-about nor far awa. 
Sic a Ewe was never born, &c. 

Yet last ouk, for a' my keeping, 
(Wha can speak it without weeping ?) 
A villain ram when I was sleeping, 

Sla' my Ewie, horn and a' ; 
I sought her sair upo' the morn, 
And dowti aneath a huss o' tlioin 
1 got my Ewie's crookit horn. 

But my Ewie was awa'. 
I got my Ewie's crookit hoin, &c. 

! gin I had the loan that did it, 
Sworn I have as well as said it, 
Tho' a' the warld should forbid it, 

I wad gie his neck a thra' : 

1 never met wi' sic a lurn, 
As this sin ever I was Viorn, 
My Ewie wi' the crookit torn, 

Silly Ewie stown awa'. 
My Ewie wi' the crookit horn, kc, 

O ! had she died o' crook or cauld, 
As Ewies do when they grow auld, 
It wad nae been, by mony fauid, 

Sae sare a heart to nane o's a' : 
For a' the claith that we hae worn, 
JPr«« her and her's eae aften shorn, 



The loss o' her we couM liae bortl, 

Had fair strae-death ta'en her awa . 
Tlie loss o' her we cou'd hae born, &c. 

But thus, poor thing, to Ipse ter life, 
Aneath a bleedy villain's knife, 
I'm really fley't that our guidwife 

Will never win aboon't ava : 
O ! a* ye bards benorth Kinghorn, 
Call your muses up and mourn, 
Our Ewie wi' the crookit horn, 

Stown frae's, and fellt and a' ! 
Our Ewie wi' the crookit horn, &c. 



" Weel does the cannie Kimmer ken 
To gar the swats gae glibber down." 



Burns. 



BLYTH WAS SHE 

Blyth, blyth, blyth was she, 

Blyth was she butt and ben ; 
And weel she loo'd a Hawick gill. 

And leugh to see a tappit hen. 
She took me in, and set me down, 

And heght to keep me lawing-free ; 
But, cunning carling that she was. 

She gart me birle my bawbie. 

We loo'd the liquor well enough ; 

But waes my heart my cash wa« done 
Before that I had quench'd my drowth, 

And kith I was to pawn my shoon. 
When we had three times toom'd our stoup^ 

And the niest chappin new begun, 
Wha started in to heeze our hope, 

But Andro* wi' his cutty gua. 



ANDRO Wr HIS CUTTIE GUN. 

This blythsome song, so full of Scottish hu- 
mour and convivial merriment, is an intimxte 
favourite at Bridal Trystes, and Houte-htat- 
ir.gs. It contains a spirited picture of a country 
ale-house touched off with all the lightsome gaiety 
so peculiar to the rural muse of Caledonia, when 
at a fair. 

Instead of the line, 

" Girdle cakes weel toasted brown," 

I have heard it sung, 

" Knuckled cakes weel brandert brown." 

These cakes are kneaded out with the knuckles, 
and toasted over the red embers of wood on a 
gridiron. They are remarkably fine, and have 
a delicate relish when eaten warm with ale. 
On winter market nights the landlady heats 
them, and drops them into the quaigh to warm 
the ale : 



SONGS. 



14d 



The carling brouglit her kebbuck ben, 

With girdle-caikes wcel-toasted brown, 
Well does the canny kimmcr ken, 

They gar the swats gae glibber down. 
We ca'd the bicker aft about ; 

Till dawning we ne'er jee'd our bun, 
Apd ay the cleanest drinker out 

Was Andro' wi' his cutty gun. 

He did like ony mavis sing, 

And us I in hia oxter &at. 
He ca'd me ay his bonny thing, 

And mony a sappy kiss I gat : 
I hae been east, I hae lieen west, 

I hae been fur ayont the sun ; 
But the hlythest lad that e'er I saw 

Was Andro wi' his cutty gun ! 



HUGHIE GRAHAM. 

There are several editions of this ballad — 
This, here inserted, is from oral tradition in 
Ayrshire, where, when I was a hoy, it was a 
popular song. — It originally, had a simple old 
tune, which I have forgotten — Burns. 

Our lords are to the mountains gane, 
A hunting o' the fallow deer, 
' And they have gripet Hughie Graham 
For stealing o' the bishop's mare. 

And they have tied him hand and foot, 
And led him up, thro' Stilling town ; 

The lads and lasses met him there, 

Cried, Hughie Graham thou'rt a loun. 

O lowse my right hand free, he says. 
And put my braid sword iu the same ; 

He's no in Stirling town this iluy, 
Dare tell the tale to Hughie Graham. 

Up then bespake the brave Whitefoord, 

As he sat by the bishop's knee, 
Five hundred white stots I'll gie you 

If ye'll let Hughie Graham free. 

O baud your tongue, the bishop says. 
And wi' your pleading let me be ; 

For tho' ten Grahams were in his coat, 
Hughie Graham this day shall die. 

Up then bespake the fair Whitefoord, 

As she sat by the bishop's knee ; 
Five hundred white pence I'll gie you, 

If ye'll gie Hughie Graham to me. 

O hand your tongue now lady fair, 

And wi' your pleading let it lie ; 
Altho' ten Grahams were in his coat, 

Iu for my honut ha mauu die. 



They've ta'en him to the gallows knowet 

He looked to the gallows tree. 
Yet never colour left his cheek, 

Nor ever did he blink his ee. 

At length he looked round about. 

To see whatever he could spy : 
And there he saw his auld father, 

x\nd he was weeping bitterly. 

baud your tongue, my father dear. 
And wi' your weeping let it be ; 

Thy v>-eeping's sairer on my heart. 
Than a' that they can do to me. 

And ye may gio my brother John, 

My swoid that's bent in the middle clears 

And let hira come at twelve o'clock. 
And see me pay the bishop's mare. 

And ye may gie my brother James 

My sword that's bsnt in the middle brown, 
And hid him come at four o'clock. 

And see his brother Hugh cut down. 

Rt-memher me to Maggy my wife. 

The niest time ye gang o'er the moor. 

Tell her she staw tht; bishop's mare, 
Tell her she was the biijliop's whore. 

And ye may tell my kith and kin, 
I never did disgrace their hhiod ; 

And when they meet the bishop's cloak, 
To r.iak it shorter liy the hood. 



LORD RONALD, MY SON. 

This air, a very favourite one In Ayrshire, 
is evidcntlv the original of Lochaber. In this 
manner nuxt of our iiiiest more modern airs have 
had their origin. Some early minstrel, or mu- 
sical shepherd, composed the simple artless ori- 
ginal air, which being picked up by the more 
learned musician, took the improved for tim 
bears. — Buuns. 

The name is commonly sounded Ronald, or 

Randal. 

Where have ye been hunting, 

Lord Randal, my son ? 
Where have ye been hunting, 

i\Iy handsome y(mng man ? 
In yon wild wooil. Oh mother, 

Si) make my bed soon : 
For I'm wae, and I'm weary, 

And fain would lie down. 

Wiere gat ye your dinner. 

Lord Randal, my son ? 
Where gat ye your dinner. 

My handsome young man ? 



150 



BURNS* WORKS. 



O, I dined with my true love, 
So make my bed soon : 

For I'm wae, and I'm weary, 
And fain would lie down. 

O, what was your dinner, 

Lord Randal, my son ? 
O, what was year dinner, 

My handsome young man ? 
Eds boiled in broo, mother ; 

So make ni)' bed soon : 
For I'm wae, and I'm weaiy. 

And fain would lie down. 

O, where did ^she find tliein, 

Lord Randal, my son V 
O, where did she catch tlieiii. 

My handsome yminj^ man ? 
'Neath the bush of bro«n brekan. 

So make my bed soon : 
For I'm wae, and I'm weary 

And fain would lie down. 

Now, where are your bloodhounds 

Lord Randal, my son ? 
What came of your bloodhounds. 

My handsome young man ? 
They swelled and died, mother, 

And sae maun I soon : 
O, I am wae, uud I'm weary. 

And fain would lie down. 

I fear you arc poisoned, 

Lord Randid, my son ! 
I fear you are poisoned. 

My handsome young man ! 
O yes I am poisoned, — 

So make ray bed soon : 
J am sick, sick at heart. 

And I now must lie down. 



LOGAN BRAES. 

^ Theke Were two old songs to this tune ; one 
(if them contained some striking lines, the other 
entered into the sweets of wooing rather too 
freely for modern poetry. — It began, 

•' Ae simmer night on Logan braes, 

I helped a bounie lassie on wi' her claes. 
First wi' her stockins, an' syne wi' her shooo. 
But she g^ed me the glaiks when a' was done." 

The other seems older, but it is not so charac- 
teristic of Scottish courtship. 

•' Logan Water's wide and deep. 
An' laith am I to weet my feet ; 
But gif ye'll consent to gang wi* roe, 
I'll hire ahorse to carry thee." 

Burns. 



AHOTBER SEX. 

LOGAN WATER, 

BT JOHN MAYNE. 

Bt Logan's streams that rin sae deep, 
Fu' aft', wi' glee, I've herded sheep, 
I've herded sheep, or gather 'd slaes, 
Wi' my dear lad, on Logan Braes : 
But, wae's my heart, thae days are gaue, 
And, fu' o' grief, I herd my lane ; 
Whi le my dear lad maun face his faes, 
Far , far frae me and Logan Braes ■! 

Nae mair at Logan Kirk wUl he, ^ 

Atween the preachings, meet wi' me— > 
Meet wi' me, or, when it's mirk. 
Convoy me harae frae Logan Kirk ! 
I wcil may sing, thae days are gane — ■ 
Frae Kirk and Fair I come my lane. 
While my dear lad maun face bis faes. 
Far, far frae me and Logan Braes ! 



O'ER THE MOOR AMANG THE 
HEATHER. ^ 

This song is the composition of a Jean Glover, 
a girl who was not only a w — e, but also a thief; 
and in one or other character has visited most 
of the Correction Houses in the West. — She 
was born, I believe, in Kilmarnock : — 1 took 
the song down from her singing as she waa 
strolhng through the country, with a slight-of- 
hand blackguard. — Burns. 

Comin' thro' the Craigs o' Kyle, 
Amang the bonnie blooming heather, 
There I met a bonnie lassie. 
Keeping a' her yowes thegither. 

O'er the moor aviang the heather. 

O'er the moor amany the heather, 

There I met a bonnie lassie. 

Keeping a' her yowes thegither. 

Says I, my dearie, where is thy hame. 
In moor or dale, pray tell me whether ? 
She says, I tent the fleecy flocks ,' 

That feed amang the blooming heather, i 

O'er the moor, Sfc, 

We laid us down upon a bank, f 

Sae warm and sunny was the weather, , 

Slie left her flocks at large to rove '. 

Amang the buuuie blooming heather. 

O'er the moor, Sfc. 

While thus we lay she sang a sang, 
Till echo rang a mile and farther. 
And ay the burden o' the sing 
Was — o'er the raoor amang the heather. 
O'er the moor, Sfc. 



SONGS. 



151 



She ctftrmM my teavt, and aye sinsyne, 
I could na think on any ither : 
By sea and sky she shall be mine ! 
The bonnie lass amang the heathei-. 

O'er the moor, SfC. 



BONNIE DUl^fDEE. 

WHARK !{at ve that hauver-meal bannock, 
O silly blind bodie, O dinna ye sec ! 

1 cot it frae a sodger laddie, 

Between Saint Johnstone .and honn.e Dundee. 
O gin I saw the laddie that gac me't ! 

Aft has ho doudl'd mc on his knee : 
Mav heav'n protect my bonnie Scotch laddie, 

And sen' him safe hame to his babie and me ! 

May blcssins light on thy sweet, wc lippie ! 

May blessins light on thy bonnie ee-brce '. 
Thou smiles sae like my sodger laddie, 

Thou's dearer, dearer ay to me ! 
But I'll big a bow'r on yon bonnie banks, 

Whan; T;iy rins wimplau by sae clear ; 
An* ill deed thee in the tartan fine. 

An' mak thee a man like thy daddie dear ! 

OLD VKBSE. 

Yc'ie like to the timmer o' yon rotten wood, 
Ye'rc like to ihe bark o' yon rotten ti-ee, 

Yr slip frac me like a knotless thread. 

An* ye'll crack your credit wi' mae than me. 



Come in, auld Carl ! I'll steer my fire, 
I'll mak it bleeze a bonnie flame ; 

Your blude is tliin, ye've tint the gate, 
Ye should na stray sae far fiae hame. 

' Nae hame have I," the minstrel said, 
" Sad party strife o'erturn'd my ha ; 

" And, weeping at the eve o' life, 
" I wander thro' a wreath o snaw. 



DONOCHT-IIEAD. 

Tunc—" Gordon Castle." 

Ki- EK blaws the wind o'er Donocht-Head,* 

The snaw drives snelly thro' the dale, 
The Gaberlunzie tirls my sneck. 

And shivering tells his waefu' talc. 
«' Cauld is the night, O let me in, ^ 

•' And dinna let your minstrel fa', 
" And dinna let his windin-sheet 

" Be naething but a wreath o' snaw ! 

" Full ninety winters hae I seen, 

" And pip'd where gor-cocks whirring flew, 
«' And mony a day ye've daiu'd, I ween, ^^ 

" To lilts which frae my drone I blew." 
Jly Eppie wak'd, and soon she ciy'd, 

" Get up, Guidinau, and let him in ; 
" For wecl ye ken the winter night 

" Was short when he began iiis din." 

JIv Eppie's voice, O wow it's sweet 
E'en tho' she bans and scauitis awee ; 

But when it's tun'd to sorrow's tale, 
O haith, it's doubly dear to mc ! 

» A mountain in the North. 



THE BANKS OF THE TWEED. 

This song is one of the many attempts that 
EncrUsh composer-s have made to imitate the 
ScoUish manner, and which I shjdl, m these 
strictmes, beg leave to distinguish by the appel- 
lation of Anglo- Scottish productions. The mu- 
sic is pretty good, but the verses are just above 
contempt.— Burns, 

BARNETT. 

I LEFT the sweet banks of the deep flowing 
Tweed, 
And my own little cot by the wild wood. 
When Fanny was sporting through vaUey and 

■ mead, • i. j • 

In the beautiful morning of chJdhood. 

And oftimes alone, by the wave-beaten shore, 
When the billows of twilight were flowmg, 

I thought, as I mus'd on the days that were o er. 
How the rose on her cheek would be blowing. 

I came to the banks of the deep flowing Tweed, 

And mine own little cot by the wild wood. 
When o'er me ten summers had gather d their 

speed, ,.,ji. J 

And Fanny had pass'd from her childhood. 

I'found her as fair as my fancy could dream. 

Not a bud of her loveliness blighted. 
And I wish'd I had ne'er seen her beauty's soft 
beam. 
Or that we were for ever united. 



THE FLOWERS OF EDINBURGH. 

This Song is one of the many eflfusions of 
Scots jacobitism.— The title, Flotoers of Edin- 
burgh, has no manner of connexion with the 
mesent vei-ses, so I suspect there has been an 
older set of words, of which the title is all that 
remains. 



• 'riiis affecting iiocm was long attributed to Burns. 
Hetlu.s~ksonit. - Do„oc/.^//f«d is not mine : 
1 wm Kl give ten pounds it were. It appeared firet in 
he Ed iiSurgl. Herald : a..d came to the e. .tor of that 
.^per with the Newcastle post-mark on it." It was 
thi composition of William Pickering, a north of 
England poet, who is not known to have written any 
thiug more. 



152 



BURNS* WORKS. 



' Bjr the ojre, it ii singular enough that the 
Scottish Muses were all Jacobites — 1 have paid 
more attention to every description of Scots 
songs than perhaps any body living has done, 
and 1 do not recollect one single stanza, or even 
the title of the most trifling; Scots air, which 
has the least panegyrical reference to the fami- 
lies (if Niissau or Brunswick ; while there are 
hundreds satirizing them. This may be thought 
no panegyric on the Scots Poets, but I mean it 
as such. For myself, I woulil always take it as 
a compliment to have it said, that my heart ran 
before my head ; and surely the gallant though 
unfortunate house of Stuart, the kings of our 
fathers for so many heroic ages, is a theme 
much more interesting than • • • *. — 

BUHNS. 

My love was once a bonny lad, 

He was the flower of all his kin, 
The absence of his bonny face 

Has rent my tender lieart in twain. 
I day nor night find no delight. 

In silent tears I still complain ; 
And caclaim 'gainst those my rival foes, 

That ha'e ta'en from me my darling swain. 

Despair and anguish fills my breast. 

Since I have lost my blooming rose ; 
I sigh and moan while others rest. 

His absence yields me no repose. 
To seek my love I'll range and love, 

Thio' every grove and distant plain ; 
Thus I'll ne'er cease, but spend my days. 

To hear tidings from my darling swain. 

There's naething strange in Nature's change, 

Since parents shew such cruelty ; 
They caus'd my love from me to range, 

And knows not to whtit destiny. 
The pretty kids and tender lambs 

IMay cease to sport upon the plain ; 
But I'll mourn and lament in deep discontent 

For the absence of my darling swain. 

Kind Neptune, let me thee entreat, 

To send a fair and pleasant gale ; 
Ye dolphins sweet, upon me wait, 

And convey me on your tail ; 
Heavens bless my voyage with success, 

While crossing of the raging main, 
And send me safe o'er to that distant shore. 

To meet my lovely darling swain. 

All joy and mirth at our return 

Shall then abound from Tweed to Tay ; 
The bells shall ring and sweet binls sing. 

To grace and crown our nuptial day. 
Thus bless'd wi' charms in my love's arms. 

My heart once more I will regain ; 
Then I'll range no more to a distant shore. 

But in love will enjoy my darling swain. 



CHARLIE, HE'S MY DARLINa 

OLD VERSES. 

2^471?—" Charlie is my darling." 

*TwAS on a Monday morning, 

Richt early in the year. 
That Charlie cam to our toun, 
The young Chevalier. 

Atid Charlie he's my darling. 

My darling, my darling ; 
Cliiirlie lie's my darling, 
The young Chevalier, 

As he was walking up the streeti 

The city for to view, 
O there he s|)ied a bonnie lass. 

The window looking through. 
And Charlie, SfS. 

Sae licht's he jumped up the stair, 

And tirled at the pin ; 
And wha sae ready as hersell, 

To let the laddie in ! 

And Charlie, ^-c. 

He set his Jenny on his knee, 

All in his Highland dress ; 
For brawly weel he kenned the way 

To please a bonnie lass. 

And Charlie, §*c. 

It's up yon heathy mountain, 
And down yon scroguy glen, 

We daurna gang a- milking, 
For Charlie and his men. 
Aiid Charlie, SfC 



THE SOUTERS OF SELKIRK. 

Up \v\t\\ the souters of Selkirk, 

And down with the Earl of Home ! 

And up wi' a' the brave lads, 
Wha sew the single-soled shoon ! 

O ! fye upon yellow and yellow. 
And fye upon yellow and green ; 

And up wi' the true blu'; and scarlet. 
And up wi' the single-soled shoon ! 

Up wi' the souters of Selkirk — 

Up wi' the lingle and last ! 
There's fame wi' the days that's coming, 

And glory wi' them that are past. 

Up wi' the souters of Selkirk — 
Lads that are trusty and leal ; 

And up with the men of the Forest, 
And down wi' the Alerse to the deil ' 

O ! mitres are made for noddles. 
But feet they a<'e made fur shoon ; 



SONGS. 



353 



And fame is as sib to Selkirk 
As light is true to the inuon. 

There sits a souter in Selkirk, 

Wha sings as he draws liis thread- 

There's gallant soutcrs in Selkirk 
As lang there's water in Tweed. 



CRAIL TOUN.* 
" Tune—" Sir John Malcolm." 

And was ye e'er in Crail toua ? 

Igo ami ago ; 
And saw ye there Clerk Dishington .' ■(• 

Sing ironi, iguo, ago. 

His wig was !ike a doukit hca, 

Igo anil ago ; 
The tail o't like a goose-pen, 

Sing iroiii, igon, ago. 

And d'ona ye ken Sir John Ulalcolm ? 

i^o ami ago ; 
Gin he's a wise man I mistak him, 

Sing irom, igon, ago. 

And haud ye weel frae Sandie Don, 

Igo and ago ; 
He's ten times dafter nor Sir John, 

Sing irom, igon, ago. 

To hear them o* their travels talk, 

Igo and ago ; 
To gae to London's but a walk, 

Sing irom, igon, ago. 

To see the wonders o' the deep, 

Igo and ago, 
Wad gar a man baith wail and weep, 

Sing irom, igon, ago. 

To see the leviathan skip, 

Igo and ago, 
And wi* his tail ding ower a ship, 

Sing irom, igon, ago. 



• Tliere is a somewhat diRerent version of this 
strange song in Herd's Collection, I77B. Tlie present, 
whicli I think the best, is copied from tlje Scottish 
Minstrel. 

t The person known in Scottish soni; and tradition 
by the epithet Clerk Dishington, w.is a notary who re. 
tided about the middle of the last century in Crail, 
and acted as the town-clerk of that ancient biirj-h. I 
have been inf<irmcd (hat he Wivs a iicrsim of great local 
celebrity in his lime, as an uncoinproinisiug humour- 



MY ONLY JO AND DEARIE, O. 



Tune—" My only jo and dearie, O." 

Thy cheek is o' the rose's hue, 

l\Iy onlv' jo and dearie. O ; 
Thy neck is o' tiie siller dew, 

Upon the bank sae briery, O. 
Thy rjetli are o' the ivory, 

sweet's the twinkle o' thine ee : 
Nae joy, nae [<leu$ure blinks on me, 

My only jo and dearie, O. 

When we were bairnies oti yon brae. 
And youth was biinkiu' bonnie, O, 

Aft we wad dutf the lee lang day, 
Our joys fu' sweet and monie, O. 

Aft I wail chase thee ower the lee, 

And round about the thorny tree ; 

Or pu' the wild flow'rs a' for thee, 
My only jo and dearie, O. 

1 hae a wish I canna tine, 

'iMang a' the cares that grieve me, O ; 
A wish that thou wcrt ever mine. 

And never niair to leave me, O ; 
Then I wad daiit thee niclit and day, 
Nae ither warjdly care I'd hae. 
Till life's warm stream forgat to play. 

My only jo and dearie, O. 



FAIRLY SHOT O' HER. 

Tiine-~" Fairly shot o' her." 

pill I were fairhj shot o' her/ 
Fairly, fairhj, fairly shot o' her I 
gin I tcere fairly shot d her I 
Jf she were dead, I wad dance on the top o* her! 

Till we were married, I couldna see licht till 

her ; 
For a month after, a* thing aye gaed richt wi' 

her : 
I3ut these ten years I hae prayed for a Wright 

to her — 
gin I were fairly shot o' her ! 

O gin I were fairly shot o' her/ Sfc. 

Nuno o' her relations or friends could stay wi* 

her : 
The necbours and bairns are fain to flee frae her: 
And I my ainsell am forced to gie way till her ; 
O gin I were fairly shot o' her ! 

O gin I were fairly shot o' her ! j*c. 

She gangs aye sae braw, she's sae muckle pride 

in her ; 
Taerc's no a gudewife in the haill countrr-sids 

like her ; 



♦ Richard Gall, (he son of a dealer in oM furniture 
In St. Mary's Wynd, Ediiiburch. was brought up to 
ilic business of a jirintcr, and died at an early If e 
about U)u bcgiauiug oi the present oeottuy. ' ^ ■' 



154 



BURNS' WORKS. 



"Wi* dreis and wi' drink, the dell wadna bide wi' 

her: 
O gin I were fairly shot o' her ! 

O gin J were fairly shot o' her ! S^c. 

If the time were but come that to the kirk-gate 

wi' her, 
And into the yird I'd mak mysell quit o' her, 
I'd then be as blythe as first when I met wi* 

her: 
O gin I were fairly shot o' her ! 

O gin J were fairly shot o' htr J S^c. 



FALSE LUVE ! AND HAE YE PLAY'D 
ME THIS. 

Fai.se luve ! and hae ye play'd me this, 

In summer, 'mid the flowers ? 
I shall repay yc back again 

In winter, 'mid the showers. 

But again, dear luve, and again, dear luve, 

Will ye not turn again ? 
As ye look to other women 

Shall I to other men ?• 



FARE YE WEEL, MY AULD WIFE. 

And fare ye weel, my auld wife ; 

Sing bum, bee, berry, bum ; 
Fare ye weel, my auld wife ; 

Sing bum, bum, bum. 
Fare ye weel, my auld wife, 
The steerer up o' sturt and strife. 
The maut 's abune the meal the nicht, 

Wi' some, some, some. 

And fare ye weel, my pike-staflF; 

Sing bum, bee, berry, bum : 
Fare ye weel, my pike-stafF; 

Sing bum, bum, bum. 
Fare ye weel, my pike-staff, 
Wi' you nae mair my wife I'll baff ; 
The maut's abune the meal the nicht, 

Wi' some, some, some. 



GET UP AND BAR THE DOOR. 

It fell about the Martinmas time. 
And a gay time it was than, 



• From Herd's Collection, ITTt'.— A. slightly differ. 
ent version is put by Sir Walter Scott into the mouth 
of Davie Gellatley, m the celebrated novel of Waver- 
lev V 

«■ False love, and hast thou play'd me this. 

In summer, among the flowers? 
I will repay thee bacTi. again 
In winter, among the showers. 

" Unless again, again, my love. 

Unless you turn again. 
As you with other maidens rove, 

I'll emije on other men " .' ''~ " 



When our gudewife had pttddins to mak, 
And she boil'd them in the pan. 
And the barrin' o' our door weil, weil, weil. 
And the barrin' o' our door weil. 

The wind blew cauld frae south to north. 

It blew into the floor ; 
Says our gudeman to our gudewife, 

Get up aud bar the door. 
And the barrin', S^c. 

My hand is in my hussyfe skep, 

Gudeman, as ye may see ; 
An it shouldna be barr'd this hunncr year, 

It's no be barr'd for me. 
And the barrin, ^c. 

They made a paction 'tween them twa. 

They made it firm and sure. 
The first that spak the foremost word 

Should rise and bar the door. 
And the barrin', S^c. 

Then by there came twa gentleman. 

At twelve o'clock at night ; 
And they could neither see house nor ha', 

Nor coal nor candle-licht. 
And the barrin', Sfc. 

Now whether is this a rich man's house, 

Or whether is this a puir ? 
But never a word wad ane o* them speak, 

For the barrin* o' the door. 
And the barrin', S^c. 

And first they ate the white puddins. 

And syne they ate the black ; 
And muckle thocht our gudewife to hersell. 

But never a word she spak. 
And the barrin', Sfc, 

1 
Then said the tane unto the tother, 

Hae, man, take ye my knifis, 
Do ye tak aff the auld man's beard. 

And I'll kiss the gudewife. 
And the barrin', t^c. 

But there's nae water in the house. 

And what shall we do than ? 
What ails ye at the puddin' broo. 

That boils into the pan ? 
And the barrin', §*c. 

O, up then startit our gudeman. 

And an angry man was he : 
Wad ye kiss my wife before my face, 

And scaud me wi* puddin' bree ? 
And the barrin', §-c. 



Then up and startit our gudewife, 
Gi'ed three skips on the floor : 

Gudeman, ye've spoken the foremost word, 
Get up and bar the door.» 
And the barrin', §'c. 



• From Herd's Collection. 1776.— Tradition, as re. 
ported in Johnson's Musical Museum, affirms that the 



SONGS. 



155 



LOGIE 0* BDCHAN. 

T^ne—" Logic o' Buchan." . 

O, LoGiE o' Buchan, O, Logie, the laird, 
They hae ta'ea awa Jamie that delved in the 

' yard ; 
He play'd on the pipe and the viol sae sma' ; 
They hae ta'en awa Jamie, the flower o' them a'. 
iTe said. Think na lang, lassie, though I 

gang awa ; 
He said. Think 7ia lang, lassie, though I 

gang awa ; 
J^or the simmer is coming, cauld winter's 

(lira. 
And I'll come back and set thee in spite o' 
them a'. 

O, Sandie has owsen, and sillur, and kyi', 
A hous<! and a haddin, and a' tliinj,'s forbye, 
But I wad hae Jamie, xvi's l)ounct iu'n hand, 
Before I'd hae Sandy \vi' houses and laud. 
Jfc said, ^c. 

My daddie looks sulky, uiy miunie looks sour, 
They frown upon Jamie, because he is poor ; 
But daddiu aud minnie although that they be. 
There's naue o' them a' like my Jamie to me. 
He said, Sfc. 

1 sit (111 my crcepie, and spin at my wheel. 
And think on the laddie that lo'ed mo sae weel ; 
lie had but ae sixpence — he brak it in twa, 
And he gi'ed me thehauf o't wheiihc gaed awa. 
7'hin, haste ge back, Jamie, and hide na aiva. 
Then haste yc back, Jamie, and bide na awa ; 
dimmer is comin, cauld winter s awa, 
A'nd ge'll come and see me in spite o' them 



" m),Icman" of this song was a person of the name of 
Johi Blunt, who lived of yore in Crawford-Muir. 
Thae arc two tunes to which it is often sung. One of 
them is in most of the Collections of Scottish Tunes 
theoth<T, thoufjh to api^earanee equally ancient, seems 
to liave been preser»'ed by tradition alone, ;us wu have 
ne\cr seen it m print. A third tune, to which we have 
heard this song sung, bvonly one person, an American 
student, we suspect to have been imported from his 
own country. 

• " Logie o' Buchan" is stated by Mr. Peter Buchan 
of Peterhead, in his Gleanings of Scarce Old Ballad: 
(ISt'T), to have been the composition of Mr. George 
Haliiet, and to have been written by him while school 
mjster of Rathen, in Aberdeenshire, about the year 
173fi. " The poetry of tiiis individual," says Mi 
Buchan, " was chietiy Jacobitical, and long remained 
familiar amongst the peasantry in tliat quarter of the 
country : One of the best known of these, at the pre- 
sent, is ' Wherry, Whigs, awa, man I' In 1746, Mr 
Halket wrote a dialogue betwixt (ieorge IL and the 
Devil, which falhng into the hands of the Duke of 
Cumbeiland while on his march to Culloden, he of- 
fered one hundred pounds reward for the person or 
the head o( its author. Mr. Halket died in 1756. 

" The Logie here mentioned, is in one of the ad- 
joining parishes (Cramond) where Mr. Halket then 
resided ; and the hero of the piece was a James Ro- 
bertson, gaidener at the place of Logie." 



HERE'S A HEALTH TO tftEM THAT'S 
AWA. 

Tune—" Here's a health to them thafi awa." 

Here's a health to them that's awa. 
Here's a health to them that's awa ; 

Here's a health to them that were here ihort 
syne, 
Aud canna be here the day. 

It's gude to he merry and wise ; 

It's gude to be honest and true ; 
It's gude to be aff wi' the auld lovo, 

Before ye be on wi' the new. 



HEY, CA' THROUGH. 

Tuue — " Hey, ca' through." 

Ue w i' the carles o' Dysart, 

And the lads o' Buckhavua, 
And the kimmers o' Largo, 
And the lasjcs o' Lcven. 

Heg, ca' through, ea' through, 

IFor tee hae muchle ado : 
Hey, ca' through, cu through, 
For ive hae muckle ado. 

We hae tales to tell, 

Aud we hae sangs to sing ; 
Wc hae pennies so spend. 

And we hae pints to bring. 

Haj, ca' through, g-c. 

We'll live a' our days ; 

And them that conies behin', 
Let them do the like. 

And spend the gear they win. 

Hey, ca' through, tfc. 



I LO'ED NE'ER A LADDIE BUT AWE, 

CLUNIE. 

Tune — " My lodging is ok the cold ground." 

I lo'ed ne'er a laddie but ane ; 

He lo'ed ne'er a lassie but me ; 
He's willing to raak me his ain ; 

And his ain I am willing to be. 
He has coft me a rokelay o' blue, 

And a pair o' mittens o' green ; 
The price was a kiss o' my mou' ; 

And I paid him the debt yestreen. " 

Let ithers brag weel o' their gear, 

Their land, and their lordly degree , 
I careoa for ought but my dear. 

For he's ilka thing lordly to me : 
His words are sae sugar'd, sae sweet ! 

His sense drives ilk fear far awa ! 
I listen — poor fool ! and I greet ; 

Yet bow sweet are the tears a» they ft' J^ 



rjQ 



BURNS' WORKS. 



AYE WAUKINQ, O. 

THK ORIGINAL SONG, PROU RECITATION. 

r.M wet, wet, 

O I'm wi.'t and weary ! 
Yot fain wad I ii->e and rin. 

It" I tliouglit I would meet my deary. 
Ai/ wauking, O ! 

Wauking aye, and weary. 
Sleep I cn7i get nane 

For thin/ling o' my deary, 

Sinihier's a pleasant time. 

Flowers of every cti'our, 
The water rins ower iae heugh— 

And- 1 laug for my true lover. 
Ay icaitki7ig, §•& 

When I sleep I dream, 

When I wauk I'm eerie ; 
Sleep I can get nane 

For thinking o' my deary. 

Ay wauking, ^c. 

Lanely night comes on ; 
A' the lave are sleeping ; 

1 think on my love, 

And blear my een wi' greeting. 
Ay wauking, §fc. 

Feather-beds are soft. 

Painted rooms are bonnie ; 
But a kiss o' my dear love 

Is better far than ony. 

Ay wauking, Sfc. 



KELVIN GROVE. 

JOHN LYLE. 

Tune — " Kelvin Grove." 

Let us haste to Kelvin grove, bonnie lassie, O ; 
Through its mazes let us rove, bonnie lassie, O ; 

Where the rose in all its pride 

Decks the hollow dingle's side, 
Where the midnight fairies glide, bonnie lassie, O. 

We will wander by the mill, bonnie lassie, O, 
To the cove beside the rill, bonnie lassie, O ; 

Where the glens rebound the call 

Of the lofty waterfall. 
Through the mountain's rocky hall, bonnie 
lassie, O. 

Then we'll up to yonder glade, bonnie lassie, O, 
Where so oft, beneath its shade, bonnie lassie, O, 

With the songsters in the grove. 

We have told our tale of love. 
And have sportive garlands wove, bonnie lassie, O. 

Ah I I soon must bid adieu, bonnie lassie, O, 
To this fairy scene and you, bonnie lassie, O, 



■ To the streamlet winding clear, 
To the fragrant-scented brier. 
E'en to thee of all most dear, bonnie Ibmic, O, 

For the frowns of fortune low'r, bonnie latrie, O, 
On thy lover at this hour, bonnie lassie, O : 
Ere the golden orb of day. 
Wakes the warblers from the spray. 
From this land I must away, bonnie lassie, O. 

And when on a distant shore, bonnie lassie, 0, 
Should I fall 'midst battle's roar, bonnie lassie, O, 

Wilt thou, Helen, when you hear 

Of thy lover on his bier, 
To his memory shed a tear, b^iunie lassie ? 0.* 



BLUE BONNETS OVER THE BORPER, 

SIR WALTER SCOTT. 

rune—" Blue Bonnets over the Border." 

March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale, 

Why, my lads, dinna ye march forward in 
order ? 
March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale ; 

All the blue bonnets are over the Border. 
Many a banner spread flutters above your head ; 

Many a crest that is famous in story : 
Mount and make ready, then, sons of the moun« 
tain glen ; 
Fight for your Queen and the old Scottish 
glory. 

Come from the hills where your hirsels are graz- 
ing; 

Come from the glen of the buck and the roe ; 
Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing ; 

Come with the buckler, the lance, and the kow. 
Trumpets are sounding, war steeds are bounding ; 

Stand to your arms, and march in good order, 
England shall many a day tell of the bloody fia}', 

When the blue bonnets came over the Border, 



COMIN' THROUGH THE RYE. 

Tune—" Gin a Body meet a Bodf. 

Gin a body meet a body 

Comin' through the rye, 
Gin a body kiss a body. 

Need a body cry ? 
Ev'ry lassie has her laudie, 

Nane, they say, hae I ! 
Yet a* the lads they smile at me, 

When comin' through the rye. 
Amang the train there is a swain 

I dearly lo'e niysell ; 
But whaur his hame, or what his name, 
I dinna care to teil. 



• Kelvin Grove is a beautifully wooded dell, about 
tv/o miles from Glasgow, forming' a sort of /ovfT** walk 
for the lails and lai^e, uf that city. 



SONGS. 



1?)7 



Gin a body meet a body, 

Comin' f'rae tlic town, 
Gin a body greet a body, 

Need a body frowji ? 
Ev'ry lassie has lier laddie, 

Nane, they say, hae I ! 
Yet. a' tlie lads they smile at me, 

When comin' through tiic rye. 
Amans: the train there is a swain 

I dearly !o'e mysell ; 
But whaur his hame, or what his name, 
1 dinna care to tell. 



DINNA THINK, BONNIE LASSIE. 
Tune — " The Smith's a gallant fireman." 

O DiNKA think, bonnio lassie, I'm gaun to 

leave thee ; 
Pinna think, bonnie lassie, I'm gaun to leave 

tliee ; 
Pinna think, bonnie laf^sie, I'm gaun to leave 

thee ; 
I'l! tak a stick into my hand, and come again 

and see thee. 
3'\ii'.'j llic gate ye hac to gang ; dark's the 

niglit and eerie ; 
I'ar'd tlie gate ye hae to gang ; dark's the 

night and eerie ; 
Far'.s tile gate ye hae to gang; dark's the 

night and eerie ; 
O stay this night wi' your love, and dinaa 

gang and leave me. 
It's but a night and haul" a day that I'll leave 

my dearie ; 
But a night and haufaday that I'll leave my 

dearie ; 
But a night and haufaday that I'll leave my 

dearie ; 
Whene'er the sun gaes west the loch I'll 

come again and see thee. 
Dinna gang, my bonnie lad, dinna gang and 

leave me ; 
Dlnna gang, my bonnie lad, dinna gang and 

leave me ; 
WhriV a' the lavo are sound asleep, I'm dull 

and eerie ; 
And a' the lee-lang nig-ht I 'm sad, wi' think- 
ing on my dearie 



I While ih.c winds and waves do roar, I am 
I wnt and dreary ; 

I And gin ye lo'emcas ye sa}', yc wlnna gaii^ 
j and leave mc. 

j O never mair, bonnie lassie; will I gang and 
I leave thee ; 

j Never mair, bonnie lassie ,\vill I gang and 
leave thee ; 
Never mair, bonnie lassie, will I gang aiul 

leave thee; 
E'en let the world gang as it will, I'll stay 
at hame and cheer thee. 

Frac his liand he coost his stick ; I winna 

gang and leave thee ; 
Threw his plaid into the neuk; never can I 

grieve thee ; 
Drew his boots, and flang them by ; cried my 

lass, be cheerie ; 
I'll kiss the tear frac aff thy check, and 

never leave mv dearie. 



BONNIE ?.IARY HAY. 

< CRAWFORD 

EoKNiE Mary Hay, I will loc thee yet ; 
For thine eye is the slac, and thy hair is the jet ; 
The snaw is thy skin, and the rose is thy 

cheek ; 
0, bonnie Mary Ha)', I will loe thee yet ! 

O, bonnie Mary Hay, will ye gang wi' me, 
When the sun's in the west, "to the hawthorn 

tree. 
To the hav,-thorn tree, and the bonnie beiTy 

den? 
And I'll teil thee, Mary Hay, how I loc thoe 

then. 

O, bonnie Mary Hay, it is haliday to mp, 
When thou art couthic, kind, and free ; , 
There's nae cloufls in the lift, nor storms in 

the sky, 
Bonnie Mai-y Hay, wlipn thou art nigh. 

O, bonnie iVlary Hay, thou mnnna say me nay, 
But come to the bower, by the hawthorn brae ; 
But come to the bower, and I'll tell ye a' what's 
true, 



dinna tiiink, bontiie lassie, I'm gaun to | How, wnnie Maiy Hay, I can loe nane hut 

leave thee ; vou. 

Dinna tliink, bonnie lassie, I'm gaun to leave i 

tiiea ; ' " ■ 

Dinna think, bonnie lassie, I'm gaun to leave I 

thee ; \ 

When e'er llio sun £;aes out o' siglif, I'll come \ 

airain and see thse. 



W.ivi's arc rising o'er the sea ; v.-inds blaw i 

loud and fear mc ; 
Waves are rising o'er the sea ; winds blaw j 

loud and fearmc. 



CARLE, AN THE KING COME. 

Tune-—" Carl.7, an the King come." 

Carle, an the king coine. 
Carle, an the kingcdnic, 
Thou shall dance and I will sing, 
Carle, an the king conic. 



158 



BUftMS* WORKS. 



An (ODAeWly W^fe thtne dgaid, 
Then somebody maun cross the main } 
And every man shull hae his ain, 
Carle, an the king come. 

1 trow we swappit for the worse ; 
We ga'e the boot and l)etter horse ; 
And that we'll tell them at the corse, 
Carle, an the king ci;ine. 

When yellow corn grows on the rigs, 
And gibbets stand to hang the Whigs, 
O, then we'll a' dance Scottish jigs, 
Carle, an the king come. 

Nae mair wi' pinch and drouth we'll dine, 
As we hac done — a dog's propine — 
But quaff our draughts o' rosy wine, 
Carle, an the king come. 

Cogie, an the king come, 
Cogie, an the king come, 
I'ae be fou and thou'se be toom 
Cogie, an the king coiue.* 



COME UNDER MY PLAIDIE. 



Tune—" Johnny M'Oill." 

CoMt Under my phiidie ; the night's gaun to fa' ; 
Come in frae the cauld blast, the drift, and the 

snaw : 
Come under my plaidie, and sit down beside me ; 
There's room in't, dear lassie, believe me, for 

twa. 
Come under my plaidie, and sit down beside me ; 
I'll hap ye frae every cauld blast that can blaw: 
Come under my plaidie, and sit down beside me ; 
Th«re'i room in't, dear lassie, believe me, for 

twa. 

Gae 'wa wi' yere plaidie ! auld Donald, gae 'wa ; 
I fear na the cauld blast, the drift, nor the snaw ! 
Gae 'wa wi' your plaidie ! I'll no sit beside ye ; 
Ye niicht be my gutcher ! auld Donald, gae 'wa. 
I'm gaun to meet Johnnie — he's young and he's 

bonnie ; 
He's been at Meg's bridal, fou trig and fou braw ! 
Nane dances sae lichtly, sae gracefu', or tichtly. 
His cheek's like the new rose, his brow's like 

the snaw ! 

Dear Marion, let that flee stick to the wa' ; 
Yotir Jock's but a gowk, and has naething ava ; 
The haill o' his pack he has now on his back ; 
He's thretty, and I am but three score and twa. 



• Thi« i» an old favourite cavalier song ; the chorus, 
•t leiuit, u as old as tha time of the Commonwealth, 
«hea the return of King Charles II. was a matter of 
<UU)r i>iay«r to the LoyaiisU, 



Be frank «oW and kindly— I'lt tusk ye dy« 

finely ; 
To kirk or to market there'll few gang sae braw ; 
A bien house to bide in, a chaise for to ride in. 
And flunkies to 'tend ye as aft as ye ca'. 

]My father aye tauld mc, my mother and a', 
Ye'd mak a gude husband, and keep uie aye 

braw ; 
It's true, I lo'e Johnnie ; he's young and he's 

bonnie ; 
But, wae's me ! I ken he has naething ava ! 
I hae little tocher ; ye've made a gude offer ; 
I'm now mair than twenty ; my time is but 

sma' ! 
Sae gie ray your plaidi« ; I'll creep in beside ye ; 
I thocht ye'd been aulder than three score and 

twa ! 

She crap in ayont him, l)eside the stane wa', 
Whare Johnnie was listnin', and heard her tell a'. 
The day was appointed ! — his proud heart it 

duntcd. 
And strack 'gainst his side, as if burstin' in 

twa. 
He wander'd hanie wearie, the nicht it was 

drearie. 
And, thowless, he tint his gate 'mang the deep 

snaw : 
The howlet was screamin', while Johnnie cried, 

Women 
Wad marry auld Nick, if he'd keep them aye 

braw. 

O, the deil's in the lasses ! they gang now »ae 

braw, 
They'll lie down wi' auld men o' fourscore and 

twa; 
The hail o' their marriage is gowd and a car- 
riage ; 
Plain love is the cauldest blast now that can 

blaw. 
Auld dotards, be wary ! tak tent when ye 

marry ; 
Young wives, wi' their coaches, they'll whip 

and they'll ca'. 
Till they meet wi' soma Johnnie that'i youth- 

fu' and bonnie, 
And they'll gie ye horns on ilk hafiet to claw. 



DUSTY MILLER. 
Tune—" The dusty Miller." 

Hey, the dusty miller, 

And his dnsty coat ! 
He will win a shilling, 

Ere he spend a groat. 
Dusty was the coat, 

Dusty was the colour; 
Dusty was the kiss, 

That I gat frae the miller ( / J 



SONGS. 



159 



Hey, tkeolustyftiilllef,' 

And Ilia dusty sack ! 
Leeze me on the calling 

Filh the dusty peck } 
Fills the dusty peck, 

Brings the dusty siller j^ 
I wad gie my coatie 

For the dusty isiller. 



THE WEARY FUND O' TOW, 

FROM RECITATION. 

Tune—" The weary pund o' tow/'J 

1 BOUGHT my wife a stane o' lint 

As good as ere did grow. 
And a' that she could make o' that 

Was ae weary pund o' tow. 
The weary pund, the weary pund. 

The weary pund o' tow, 
I thought my wife would end her life 

Before she span her tow. 

I lookit to my yarn-nag. 

And it grew never mair ; 
I lookit to my beef-stand— 

My heart grew wonder swr ; 
I lookit to my meal-boat, 

And O, but it was howe ! 
I think my wife will end her life 

Afore she spin her tow. 

But if your wife and my wife 

Were in a boat thegither. 
And yon other man's wife 

Were in to steer the ruther ; 
And if the boat were bottomless. 

And seven mile to row, 
I think they'd ne'er come hame again, 

To spin the pund o' tow I 



I THE LANDART LAIRD. 

Thire lives a landart • laird in Fife, 
And he has married a dandily wife : 
She wadna shape, nor yet wad she sew. 
But sit wi' her cummers, and fill hersell fu* 

She wadna spin, nor yet wad she card ; 
But she wad sit and crack wi* the laird. 
Sae he is doun to the sheep-fauld, 
And cleekit a wetherf by the spauld.^ 

He's whirled aff the gude wether's skin, 
And wrapped the dandily lady therein. 
" 1 downa pay you, for your gentle kin ; 
But weel may I skelp my wether's skin.§ 



• Landward — that is, living in a part of the country 
»t gome distance from any town. 

t Wedder. t Shoulder. 

( This curious and most amusing old ditty is from 
yrf Jwnieeon's " Popular Ballads and Songs," ISOii. 



KEEP THE COUNTRY, BONNIE 
LASSIE. 

Tunt-^*' tteep the Country, bounie Lassir." 

Keep the country, bonnie lassie, 

Keep the country, keep the country ; 

Keep the country, bonnie lassie ; 
Lads will a' gie gowd for ye : 

Gowd for ye, bonnie lassie, 

Gowd for ye, gowd for ye : 
Keep the country, bonnie lassie ; 

Lads will a' gie gowd for ye. 



HAP AND ROW THE FEETIE O'T. 

WILLIAM CREECH." 

Tune—" Hap and Rowe the Feetie o't." 

We'll hap and row, we II hap and row, 
We'll hap and row the feetie o'U 

It is a wee bit weary thing : 
I downa bide the greetie o't. 

And we pat on the wee bit pan, 

To boil the lick o' meatie o't ; 
A cinder fell and spoil'd the plan, 

And burnt a* the feetie o't. 
We'll hap and row, §fc. 

Fu' sair it grat, the puir wee brat, 
And aye it kicked the feetie o't, ^ 

Till, puir wee elf, it tired itself; 
And then began the sleepie o't. 
We'll hap and row, S^c. 

The skirling brat nae parritch gat. 
When it gaed to the sleepie o't ; 

It's waesome true, instead o* t's mou*, 

They're round about the feetie o't. 

We'll hap and row, Ifc. 



f JIBIPIN* JOHN 
Tune—" Jumpln' John." 

Her daddie forbade, her minnie forbade ; 

Forbidden she wadna be. 
She wadna trow't, the browst she brewed, 
Wad taste sae bitterlie. 

The long lad they ca' Jumpin' John 

Beguiled the bonnie lassie ; 
The long lad they ca' Jumpin' John 
JBeguiled the bonnie lassie. 



• A gentleman long at the head of the bookselling 
trade in Edinburgh, and who had been Lord Provost 
of the city. A volume of his miscellaneous prose es- 
says has been published, under the title of " Edinburgh 
Fugitive Pieces." He was not only remarkable tor 
his literary accomplishments, but also for his conver- 
sational powers, which were such as to open to hiir 
the society of the highest literary men of hjj «lay. 



160 



BURNS* WORKS. 



A oow and a cauf, a yowe and a haiif. 
And thretty gude shillings and three ; 

A very gude tocher, a cottarm iii's dochter, 
The lass wi' the bonnie black ee. 
The long lad, ^t. 



DEAR ! MINNIE, WHAT SHALL I DO '. 

Tune—" O dear ! mother, what shall I do V 

" Oh dear ! reinnie.'^what shall I do? 
Oh dear ! minnie, what shall I do ? 
Oh dear ! minnie, what shall I do ?" 
" Daft thing, doiled thing, do as I do." 

" If I be black, I canna be lo'ed ; 
If I be fair, I canna be gude ; 
If I be lordly, the lads will look by me ; 
Oh dear ! minnie, what shall I do ?" 

" Oh dear ! minnie, what shall I do? 
Oh dear ! minnie, what shall I do ? 
Oh dear ! minnie, what shall I do ?" 
" Daft thing, doiled thing, do as I do." 



KILLIECRANKIE, O. 

Tune—" The braes o* Killiecrankie." 

Where hae ye been sae braw, lad ? 

Where hae ye been sae braiikie, ? 
Where hae ye been sae braw, lad ? 
Cam ye by Killiecrankie, O ? 

An ye had been where I hae been, 
Ye wadna been sae cnntie, O ; 
An ye had seen what I hae seeJi 
On the braes o' Killiecrankie, O, 

I've faught at land, I've faiight at sea ; 

At hame I faught my auntie, O ; 
But I met the deevil and Dundee, 

On the braes o' Killiecrankie, O ! 
An ye had been, §-c. 

The bauld Pitcur fell in a fur, 
And Claverse gat a dankie, O; 

Or I had fed an Athoie gled. 

On the braes o' Killiecrankie, O. 
An ye had been, S^c. 



DONALD COLTER. 
Tune—" Donald Couper and his man.' 

Hey Donald, howe Donald, 

Hey Donald Couper ! 
He'» gane awa to seek a wife, 

And he's come hame without hen 



Donald Couper and his rii»» 
Held to a Highland fair, maa; 

And a' to seek a bonnie lass— 
But hent a ane was there, man. 

At length he got a carline gray, 

And she's come hirplin hame, man ; 

And she's fawn owre the buffet stool, 
And brak her ruuiple-bane, man. 



LITTLE WAT YE WHA'S COMLNa 
Tune—" Little wat yc wha's ooming." 

Little wat ye wha's coming, 
LittK; wat ye wha's coming, 
LittL' wat ye %vha's coming ; 
Jock iiad Tam and a' 's coming ! 

Dunctn's coming, Donald's coming, 
Colin's .;uming, Ronald's coming, 
Dougil's coming, Lauchlan's coming, 
Alister and a' 's coming ! 

Little wat ye wha's coming, 
Little wat ye wha's coming. 
Little wat ye wha's comiug ; 
Jock and Tam and a' 's coming ! 

Borland and his men's coming. 
The Camerons and Maclean's coming, 
The Gordons and Macgregor's coming, 
A' the Duniev/astles coming ! 

Little wat ye wha's coming, 
Little wat ye wha's coming. 
Little wat ye wha's coming; 
RlacGilvray o' Drumglass is coming ! 

Winton's coming, Nlthsdale's coming, 
Carnwatli's coming, Kenmure's comiug, 
Derwentwater aud Foster's coming, 
Withrington and Nairn's coming ! 

Little wat ye wha's coming. 
Little wat ye wha's coming. 
Little wat ye wha's coming ; 
Blythe Cowhill and a' 's coming ! 

The Laird o' Macintosh is coining," 
Macrabie and Macdonald's coming, 
The Mackenzies and Macphersons coming, 
A' the wild MacCraws coming ! 

Little wat ye wha's coming. 
Little wat ye wha's coming, 
Little wat yc wha's coming ; 
Donald Gnu and a' 's coming' 

They gioom, they glowr, they look sae big, 
At ilka stroke they'll fell a Whig; 
They'll fright the fuds of the Pockpuds; 
For muoy a buttock bare's coming. 



SONOS. 



161 



Little wat ye wta's coming, 
Little wat ye wha's coming, 
Little wat ye wha's coming ; 
Mony a buttock bare's coming ! 



OCH HEY, JOHNNIE LAD. 

TAMNAUILL. 

OcH hey, Johnnie lad, 

Ye' re no sae kind's ye sou'd hae been ; 
Och hey, Johnnie lad. 

Ye didna keep your tryst yestreen. 
I waited lang beside the wood, 

Sae wae and weary a* my lane : 
Och hey, Johnnie lad. 

It was a waefu' nicht yestreen ! 

I lookit by the whinny knowe, 

I lookit by the firs sae green ; 
I lookit ower the spunkie howe. 

And aye I thocht ye wad hae been. 
The ne'er a supper cross'd my craig, 

The ne'er a sleep has closed my een : 
Och hey, Johnnie lad, 

Ye're no sae kind's ye sou'd hae been 

Gin ye were waitin' by the wood. 

It's I was waitin' by the thorn ; 
I thocht it was the place we set, 

And waited maist till dawnin* morn. 
But be nae beat, my bonnie lass. 

Let my waitin' stand for thine ; 
We'll awa to Craigton shaw. 

And seek the joys we tint yestreen. 



OUR GUDEMAN CAM* HAME AT E'EN. 

OuB gudeman cam hame at e'en. 

And hame cam he ; 
And there he saw a saddle-horse, 

Where nae horse should be. 
Oh, how cam this horse here ? 

How can this be ? 
How cam this horse here ? 

Without the leave o' me ? 
A horse ! quo' she ; 
Aye, a horse, quo' he. 
Ye auld blind dotard carle. 

And blinder mat ye be ! 
It's but a bonnie milk-cow. 

My mither sent to me. 
A mi\k-cow ! quo' he ; 
Aye, a milk-cow, quo' she. 
Far hae I ridden, 

And muckle hae I seen ; 
But a saddle on a inilk*cow 

Saw I never nane. 



Our gudeman cam hame at e'en, 

And hame cam he ; 
He spied a pair o* jack-boots, 

Wliere nae boots should be. 
What's this now, gudewife ? 

What's this I see ? 
How cam thae boots here. 

Without the leave o' me ? 
Boots ! quo' she ; 
Aye, boots, quo* he. 
Ye auld blind dotard carle. 

And blinder mat ye be ! 
It's but a pair o' water-stoups. 

The cooper sent to me. 
Water-stoups ! quo' he ; 
Aye, water-stoups, quo* Bhe. 
Far hae I ridden. 

And muckle hae I seen ; 
But siller-spurs on water-stoup* 

Saw I never nane. 

Our gudeman cam hame at e'een, 

And hame cam he ; 
And there he saw a siller sword. 

Where nae sword should be. 
What^s this now, gudewife ? 

What's this I see ? 
O how cam this sword here, 

Without the leave o' me ? 
A sword ! quo' she ; 
Aye, a sword, quo' he. 
Ye auld blind dotard carle. 

And blinder mat ye be ! 
It's but a parridge-spurtle. 

My minnie sent to me. 

A parridge-spurtle I quo' he ; 
Aye, a parridge-spurtle, quo' she. 
Weel, far hae I ridden. 

And muckle hae I seen ; 
But siller-handed parridge-spurtles 

Saw I never nane. 

Our gudeman cam hame at e'en, 

And hame cam he ; 
And there he spied a powder* d wig. 

Where nae wig should be. 
What's this now, gudewife ? 

What's this I see ? 
How cam this wig here. 

Without the leave o' me ? 
A wig ! quo' she ; 
Aye, a wig, quo' he. 
Ye auld blind dotard carle, 

And blinder mat ye be I 
'Tis naething but a clocken-hen 

My minnie sent to me. 
A clocken-hen ! quo' he ; 
Aye, a clocken-hen, quo' she. 
Far hae I ridden. 

And muckle hae I seen, 
But pouther on a clocken-hen 

Saw I never nane. 

Onr gudeman cam hame at e'en, 
And borne cam he ; 



41 



162 



BURNS* WORKS. 



And then lie nxf a mickle coat, 

Where nae coat should be. 
How cam this coat here ? 

How can this be ? 
How cam this coat here, 
Without the leave o' me ? 
A coat ! quo' she ; 
Aye, a coat, quo' he. 
Ye add blind dotard carle, 
And blinder mat ye be ! 
It's but a pair o* blankets 
My minnie sent to me. 
Blankets ! quo' he ; 
Aye, blankets, quo' she. 
Far hae I ridden. 

And muckle hae I seen ; 
But buttons upon blankets 
Saw I never nane ! 

Ben gaed our gudeman. 

And ben gaed he ; 
And there he spied a sturdy man, 

Where nae.man should be. 
How cam this man here? 

How can this be ? 
How cam this man here, 

Without the leave o* me ? 
A man ! quo' she ; 
Aye, a man, quo' he. 
Pttlr bUnd body, 

And blinder mat you be ! 
It'i but a new milkm' maid. 

My mither sent to me. 
A maid ! quo* he ; 
Aye, a maid, quo' she. 
Far hae I ridden. 

And muckle hae I seen. 
But lang-bearded maidens 

Saw I never nane. 



GO TO BERWICK, JQHNIE. 
7im»— " Go to Berwick Johnie." 

Go to Berwick, Johnie ; 

Bring her frae the Border ; 
Yon sweet bonnie lassie. 

Let her gae nae farther. 
English loons will twine ye 

O* the lovely treasure ; 
But we'll let them ken, 

A sword wi' them we'll measure. 

Go to Berwick, Johnie, 

And regain your honour ; 
Drive them ower the Tweed, 

And show our Scottish banner. 
I am Rob the king. 

And ye are Jock, my brither ; 
But, before we lose her, 

We'll a' there thegither.* 



• This I 



Bular rant is from Johnson's Musical Mu- 
1., liOS, RiUQD, ii^ his Scottish SongS| 



IF YE'LL BE MY DAWTIE, AND SiT 
IN MY PLAID. 

Tune—" Hie, Bonnie Lassie." 

Hie, bonnie lassie, blink over the bnrn. 
And if your sheep wander I'll gie them a turn ; 
Sae happy as we'll be on yonder green shade, 
If ye'll be my dawtie, and sit in my plaid. 

A yowe and twa lammies are a' my haill stock. 
But I'll sell a lammie out o' my wee flock. 
To buy thee a head-piece, sae bonnie and braid. 
If ye'U be my dawtie, and sit in my plaid. 

I hae little siller, but ae hauf-year's fee, 
But if ye will tak' it, I'll gie't a' to thee ; 
And then we'll be married, and lie in ae bed. 
If ye'll be my dawtie, and sit in my plaid. 



I'LL NEVER LEAVE THEE 



JOHNKY. 

Though, for seven years and mair, honour 
should reave me 

To fields where cannons rair, thou needsna 
grieve thee ; 

For deep in my spirit thy sweets are indented ; 

And love shall preserve ay what love has im- 
printed. 

Leave thee, leave thee, I'll never leave thee. 

Gang the warld as it will, dearest, believe me ' 

NELLY. 

Oh, Johnny, I'm jealous, whene'er ye discover 
My sentiments yielding, ye'll turn a loose rover ; 
And nought in the world would vex my heart 

sairer. 
If you prove inconstant, and fancy ane fairer. 
Grieve me, grieve nie, oh, it wad grieve me, 
A' the lang night and day, if you deceive me ! 



My Nelly, let never sic fancies oppress ye ; 
For, while my blood's warm, I'll kindly caress 

ye: 
Your saft blooming, beauties first kindled love's 

fire, 
Your virtue and wit mak it ay flame the higher. 
Leave thee, leave thee, I'll never leave thee. 
Gang the world as it will, dearest, believe me ! 



1793, mentions, that he had heard it gravely asserted 
at Edinburgh, that " a foolish song, beginning, 

Go, go, go, go to Berwick, Johnie ! 

Thou shalt have the horse, and I shall have the poney ! 

was made upon one of Wallace's marauding expedi- 
tions, and that the person thus addressed was no other 
than tiis /tdus Aclmtes, Sir John Graham," 



SONGS. 



163 



Kltt*. 
tlien, Johnny ! I frankly this minute allow ye 
To think me your mistress, for love gats me 

trow ye ; 
And gin ye prove false, to yoursell be it said, 

then, 
Ye win but sma' honour to wrang a puir maiden. 
Reave me, reave me, oh, it would reave me 
Of my rest, night and day, if you deceive me ! 

JOHNNY. 

Bid ice-shogles hammer red gauds on the studdy. 
And fair summer mornings nae mair appear 

ruddy ; 
Bid Britons think ae gate, and when they obey 

thee. 
But never till that time, believe I'll betray thee. 
Leave thee, leave thee ! 1*11 never leave thee ! 
The starns shall gae withershins ere I deceive 

thee! 



KATHERINE OGIE, 

As walking forth to view the plain, 

Upon a morning early, 
While May's sweet scent did cheer my brain, 

From flowers which grow so rarely, 
I chanced to meet a pretty maid ; 

She shined, though it was foggy ; ' 
I ask'd her name : sweet Sir, she said, 

My name i« Katherine Ogie. 

I stood a while, and did admire, 

To see a nymph so stately ; 
So brisk an air there did appeaf, 

In a country maid so neatly : 
Such natural sweetness she dlsplay'd, 

Like a lilie in a bogie ; 
Diana's self was ne'er array'd 

Like this same Katherine Ogie. 

Thou flower of females, beauty's queen. 

Who sees thee, sure must prize thee ; 
Though thou art drest in robes but mean. 

Yet these cannot disguise thee : 
Thy handsome air, and graceful look, 

Far excels any clownish rogie ; 
Thou art a match for lord or duke, 

My charming Katherine Ogie. 

O were I but some shepherd swain ! 

To feed n\y flock beside thee, 
At boughting-time to leave the plain, 

In milking to abide thee ; 
I'd think myself a happier man, 

With Kate, my club, and dogie. 
Than he that hugs his thousands ten, 

Had I but Katherine Ogie. 



OWER BOGtE. 

ALLAM KAMSAT. 

Tune—" O'er Bogie."' 

I WILL awa' wi' my love, 

I will awa' wi' her. 
Though a' my kin had sworn and taid, ' 

I'll ower Bogie wi' her. 
If I can get but her consent, 

I dinna care a strae ; 
Though ilka ane be discontent, 

Awa' wi her I'll gae. 

For now she's mistress o' my heart, 

And wordy o' my hand ; 
And weel, I wat, we shanna part 

For siller or for land. 
Let rakes delight to swear and drink. 

And beaux admire fine lace ; 
But my chief pleasure is to bliak 

On Betty's bonnie face. 

I will awa' wi* my love, 

I will awa' wi' her, 
Though a' my kin had twora aod said, 

I'll o'er Bogie wi' her. 



LASS, GIN YE LO'E ME. 

JAUZS TTTtXR. 

Tune—" Lass, gin ye le^e me." 

I RAE laid a herring in saut — 
Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now ; 

I hae brew'd a forpit o' maut. 

An' I canna come ilka day to woo : 

I hae a calf that will soon be a cow- 
Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now ; 

I hae a stook, and I'll soon hae a naowe, 
And I canna come ilka day to woo : 

I hae a house upon yon moor — 
Lats, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now ; 

Three sparrows may dance upon the floor. 
And I canna come ilka day to woo : 

I hae a but, an' I hae a ben- 
Lass, gin ye (o'e me, tell me now ; 

A penny to keep, and a penny to spen'. 
An' I canna come ilka day to woo : 

I hae a hen wi' a happitie-leg — 

Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now ; 
That ilka day lays me an e^^. 

An' I canna come ilka day to woo : 
I hae a cheese upon my skeLf— 

Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now ; 
And soon wi' mites 'twill rin itself. 

And I canna come ilka day to woo. 



164 BURNS' WORKS. 

LASSIE, LIE NEAR ME. THE CAMPBELL? ARE COMING. 



na. BLACKLOCK. 

Tune^" Laddie, lie near me." 

Lang hae we parted been. 

Lassie, my deerie ; 
Now we are met again, 

Lassie, lie near me. 

Near me, near me,' 
Lassie, lie near me. 

Lang hast thou lain thy lane ; 
Lassie, lie near me. 

A' that I hae endured. 

Lassie, my dearie, 
Here in thy armis is cured ; 

Lassi^ lie near lue. 



LOW DOUN r THE BRUME.* 

Tune—" hovi doun i' the Broom." 

Mr daddie is a cankert carle. 

He'll no twine wi* his gear ; 
My minnie she's a scauldin' wife, 
Hands a' the house asteer. 

Sut let them say, or let them do, 

It's a' ane to me, 
For he's low doun, /re's in the hriime, 

That's waitiiC on me : 
Waiting on me, my love, 
He's waiting on me : 
For he's low doun, he's in the hrume. 
That's waitin' on me. 

My auntie Kate sits at her wheel, 

And sair she lightlies me ; 
But weel I ken it's a' envy. 

For ne'er a joe has she. 

And let them say, Sfc, 

My cousin Kate was s.air beguiled 

Wi' Johnnie o' the Glen ; 
And aye sinsyne she cries, Beware 

O' fause 4eluding men. 

And let them say, §-c, 

deed Sandy he cam wast yestreen. 
And speir'd when I saw Pate ; 

And aye sinsyue the ueel)ors round 
They jeer me air and lato. 
And let them say, Sfc. 



* The chorus of this song is very old : tradition 
ascribes the verses to a Lairrt of Balnamoon in Forfar, 
shire : but upon that point the learned differ. It is 
one of the ino»t popular ditties in Sjcotland. 



Tune—" The Campbells are coming." 

iTfte Campbells are coming, O-ho, O-ho I 
The Campbells are earning, O-ho ! 

The Campbells are coming to bonnie JLocli- 
leven ! 
The Campbells are coming, O-ho, O-ho ! 

Upon the Lomonds I lay, I lay ; 

Upon the Lomonds I lay ; 
I lookit doun to bonnie Lochleven, 

And saw three perches play. 

The Campbells are coming, §*c. 

Great Argyle he goes before ; 

He makes the catmons and guns to roar ; 
With sound o' trumpet, pipe, and drum ; 

The Campbells are coming, O-ho, O-ho ! 
The Campbells are coming, Sfc. 

The Campbells they are a' in arms. 
Their loyal faith and truth to show. 

With banners rattling in the wind ; 

The Campbells are coming, O-ho, O-ho ! • 
The Campbells are coming, §'c. 



MERRY HAE I BEEN TEETHING A 
HECKLE. 

Tune—" Lord Breadalbane's March." 

O MERRY hae I been teething a heckle. 

And merry hae I been shapin a spune ; 
O merry hae I been cloutin a kettle. 

And kissin my Katie when a' was dune. 
O a' the lang day I ca' at my hammer, 

And a' the lang day I whistle and sing ; 
A' the lang nicht I cuddle my kiniiner, 

And a' the lang nicht as happy's a king. 

Bitter in dule I lickit my winnins, 

O' marrying Bess, to gie her a slave : 
Blest be the hour she cooled in her linens. 

And biythe be the bird that sings over her 
grave ! 
Come to my arms, my Katie, my Katie, 

And come to my arms, my Katie again ! 
Drucken or sober, here's to thee, Katie ! 

And blest be the day I did it again ! 



» From Johnson's Musical Museum, Part III., 179(1; 
where it is insinuated, as an oil (lit, that it was com- 
posed on the imprisonment of Queen Mary in Loch- 
leven Castle. The Lomonds are two well-known 
hills, overhanging Loehleven to the east, and visible 
from Edinburgh. The air is the well-known fauuly 
tune or march of the Clan Campbell. 



SONGS. 



led 



MY AULD MAN. 

Tune—" Saw ye my Father ?" 

In the land of Fife there lived a wicked wife, 

And in the town of Cupar then, 
Who sorely did lament, and made her complaint, 

Oh when will ye die, my auld man ? 

In cam her cousin Kate, when it was growing 
late, 
She said. What's gude for an auld man ? 
O whcit-breid and wine, and a kimieu new 
slain ; 
That's gude for an auld man. 

Cam ye in to jeer, or cam ye in to scorn, 

And what for cam ye in ? 
For bear-bread and water, I'm sure, is much 
better — 

It's ower gude for an auld man. 

, Now the auld man's deid, and, without remeid, 
Into his cauld grave he's ganc : 
Lie still wi' my blessing ! of thee I hae nae 

missing ; 
I'll ne'er mourn for an auld man' 

Within a little mair than three quarters of a year. 
She was married to a young man then, 

Who drank at the wine, and tippled at the beer. 
And spent more gear than he wan, 

O black grew her brows, anil howe grew her 
een, 

And cauld grew her pat and her pan : 
And now she sighs, and aye she says, 

T wish I had my silly aijld man ! * 



FOR THE SAKE OF SOMEBODY 

OLD VERSES. 

Tune—" SomeboUy." 

For the saie of snmebodi/. 
For the sake of somebody, 

I could wake a winter nicht, 
For the sake of somebody. 

I A SI gaun to seek a wife, 
I am gaun to buy a phiidy ; 

I have three stane o' woo' ; 

Carline, is thy daughter ready ? 
For the Sake of soinebodi/, §•<?. 



• From Ritson's " Scottish Songs," 173.", into 
wWch tTic editor mentions that it was eoiiieil from 
■jme common collection, whose title he did not re. 
member. It has often been the t;isli of the Scottish 
nu«c to point o\it the evils of ill-assorted alliances; 
but she fias scarcely ever done so with so much hu- 
niottf , and, at the same time, so much force of moral 
p<i>ttmg, as in the present ca^e. No tune is assigned 
to the song in Ritson's Collection; but the present 
editor has ventured to stiRpest the fine air, " Saw ve 
niy father." rather as being suitable to the peculiar 
rhythm Of the verses, than to tlie spirit of the corapo- 
iition. 



Betty, lassy, say't thysell. 

Though thy dame be ill to shoe : 
First we'll buckle, then we'll tell ; 

Let her flyte, and syne come to. 
What signifies a mother's gloom, 

Wlien love and kisses come in play ? 
Should we wither in our bloom. 

And in simmer mak nae hay ? 
For the sake of somebody, 8fc. 

Bonny lad, I carena by. 

Though I try my luck wi' thee/ 
Since ye are content to tie 

The half-mark bridal-band wi' me. 
m slip hame and wash my feet, 

And steal on linens fair and clean ; 
Syne at the trysting-place we'll meet, 
To do but what my dame haa done.' 
For the sake of somebody. 

For the sake of somebody, 

I could wake a winter nicht, 

For the sake of somebody. 



SANDY O'ER THE LEE. 

Tune—" Sandy o'er the lee.* 

I wiNNA marry ony man but Sandy ower the 

lee, 

I winna marry ony man but Sandy ower the fee ; 

I winna hae the dominie, for gude he canna be ; 

But I will hae my Sandy lad, my Sandy ower 

the lee : 

For he's aye a-kissing, kissing, aye a-kitt i 

ing me ; 
He's aye a-kissing, kissing, aye a-ltiuing me. 

I winna hae the minister, for all his godly looks ; 
Nor yet will I the lawyer hae, for a' his wily 

crooks ; 
I winna hae the ploughman lad, nor y«t w3l I 

the miller. 
But I will hae my Sandy lad, without a penny 

siller. 

For he's aye a-kissing, Sfg, 

I winna hae the soldier lad, for he gangs to the 

wars ; 
I winna hae the saUor lad, because he smells o' 

tar ; 
I winna hae the lord, or laird, for a' their lAeikle 

gear. 
But I will hae my Sandy lad, iny Sandy <^er 

the muir. 

For he's aye a-kissing, IfC. 



MY LOVE, SHE'S BUT A LASSIE YEt 

Tune—" My Love is but a lasiie yet." 

My love, she's but a lassie yet; 
My love, she'i but a lassie yet ; 



166 



pa let her stand a year or twa ; 
She'll no be half sae saucy yet. 

1 RUE the day I sought her, O ; 
I rue the day I sought her, O ; 
Wha gets her, needna say he's woo'd, 
But be may say he's bought her, O. 
My love, she's, Sfc. 

Come draw a drap o' the best o't yet ; 
Come draw a drap o' the best o't yet ; 
Gae seek for pleasure where ye will — 
But here I never miss'd it yet. 
2Hy love, she's, S^c. 

We're a' dry wi' drmking o't ; 
We're a' dry wi* drinking o't ; 
The minister kiss'd the fiddler's wife, 
And couldna preach for thinking o't. 
My love, she's, S^c, 



BURNS' WORKS. 

THE BONNIE LASS 0" BRANKSOME. 



MY WIFE HAS TA'EN THE GEE. 
Tunt—" My Wife has ta'en the Gee." 

A FRieND o' mine cam here yestreen, 

And he wad hae me down 
To drink a bottle o' ale wi' him 

In the neist burrows town : 
But oh, indeed, it was, Sir, 

Sae far the waur for me ; 
For, lang or e'er that I cam hame, 

My wife had tane the gee. 

We sat sae late, and drank sae stout, 

The truth I tell to you. 
That, lang or e'er the midnicht cam, 

We a* were roarin' fou. 
My wife sits at the fireside, 

And the tear blinds aye her ee ; 
The ne'er a bed wad she gang to, 

But sit and tak' the gee. 

In the mornin' sune, when I cam doun, 

The ne'er a word she spake ; 
But mony a sad and sour look. 

And aye her head she'd shake. 
My dear, quoth I, what aileth thee, 

To look sae sour on me ? 
1*11 never do the like again. 

If you'll ne'er tak' the gee. 

When that she heard, she ran, she flang 

Her arms about my neck ; 
And twenty kisses, in a crack ; 

And, poor wee thing, she grat. 
If you'll ne*er do the like again, 

But bide at hame wi' me, 
,ril by my life, I'll be the wife 

That never taks the gee.* 



ALLAN RAMSAT. 

7^n«— " The Bonnie Lass o' Branksome.* 

As I came in by Teviot side, 

And by the braes of Branksome, 
There first I saw my bonny bride, 

Young, smiling, sweet, and handsome. 
Her skin was safter than the down, 

And white as alabaster ; 
Her hair, a shining, waving brown ; 

In straightncss nane surpass'd her. 

Life glow'd upon her lip and cheek, 

Her clear een were surprising, 
And beautifully turn'd her neck. 

Her little breasts just rising : 
Nae silken hose with gushats fine, 

Or shoon with glancing laces. 
On her bare leg, forbade to shine 

Weel-shapen native graces. 

Ae little coat and bodice white 

Was sum o' a' her claithing j 
E'en these o'er rauckle; — mair delyte 

She'd given clad wi' naething. 
We lean'd upon a flowery brae, 

By which a burnie trotted ; 
On her I glowr'd my soul away, 

While on her sweets I doated. 

A thousand beauties of desert 

Before had scarce alarm'd me. 
Till this dear artless struck my heart, 

And, hot designing, charm'd me. 
HuiTied by love, close to my breast 

I clasp'd this fund of blisses,— 
Wha smiled, and said, Without a priest^ 

Sir, hope for nocht but kisses. 

I had nae heart to do her harm, 

And yet I couldna want her ; 
What she demanded, ilka charm 

O' hers pled I should grant her. 
Since heaven had dealt to me a routh, ' 

Straight to the kirk I led her ; 
There plighted her my faith and trouth> 

And a young lady made her.* ^ 



MY WIFE'S A WANTON WEE THING. 

Tune—" My wife's a wanton wee thing." 

Mt wife's a wanton wee thing, 
My wife's a wanton wee thing. 



• From Herd's collection, 1776. j 



• This song, which appeared in the Tea-Table 
Miscellany, (1724), was founded upon a real incident. 
The bonnie lass was daughter to a woman who kept 
an alehouse at the hamlet near Branksome Castle, in 
Teviotdale. A young officer, of some rank, — his name 
we believe was Maitfand, — happened to be be quarter- 
ed somewhere in the neighbourhood, saw, loved, and 
married her. So strange was such an alliance deemed 
in those days, that the old mother, under who«e aut* 
pices it was petfonned, did not escape the imputatios 
of witchcraft. 



SONGS. 



167 



My tn&'s a wanton wee thing ; 
She winna be guided by me. 

She play'd the loon ere she was married, 
She play'd the loon ere she was married. 
She play'd the loon ere she was married 
she'll 4o't again ere she die ! 

She sell'd her coat, and she drank it. 
She sell'd her coat, and she drank it, 
She row'd hersell in a blanket ; 
She winna be guided by me. 

She mind't na when I forbade her, 
She mind't na when I forbade her ; 
I took a rung and I claw'd her. 
And a braw gude bairn was she ! * 



WE'RE A' NODDIN. 

Tune—" Nid noddin.' 

O, we're o* noddin, nid, 7iid, noddin, 
; O, we're a' noddin, at our house at home. 

How's a' wi' ye, kimmer? and how do ye 

thrive ? 
And how mony bairns hae ye now ? — Bairns I 

hae five. 
And are they a' at hame wi' you ? — Na, na, na ; 
For twa o' them's been herdin' sin' Jamie gaed 
awa. 
And we're a' noddin, nid, nid, noddin ; 
And we're a noddin, at our house at hame. 

Grannie nods i' the neuk, and fends as she may, 
And brags that we'll ne'er be what she's been 

in her day. 
Vow ! but she was bonnie ; and vow ! but she 

was braw. 
And she had rowth o' wooers ance, I'sc warrant, 

great and sma.' 

And we're a' noddin, Sfc. 

Weary fa' Kate, that she winna nod too ; 
She sits i' the comer, suppin' a' the broo ; 
And when the bit bairnies wad e'en hae their 

share, 
She gies them the ladle, but deil a drap's there. 
And we're a' noddin, i^c. 

Now, farewcel, kimmer, and weel may ye thrive ; 
They sae the French is rinnin' for't, and we'll 

hae peace belyve. 
The bear's 'i the brear, and the hay's i' the stack, 
And a' '11 be right wi' us, gia Jamie were come 

back. i 

And we're a noddin', §-c. 



MY NATIVE CALEDONIA, 

Sair, sair was riiy heart, when I parted frae my 

Jean, 
And sair, sair I sigh'd, while the tears stood in 

my een ; 
For my daddie is but poor, and my fortune is 

but sma' ; 
Which gars me leave my native Caledonia. 

When I think on days now gane, and how hap- 
py I hae been, 

While wandering wi' my dearie, where the prim- 
rose blaws unseen ; 

I'm wae to leave my lassie, and my daddie's sim-* 
pie ha', 

Or the hills and healthfii' breeze o* Caledonia. 

But wherever I wander, still happy be my Jean ! 
Nae care disturb her bosom, where peace has 

ever been ! 
Then, though ills on ills befa* me, for her I'll 

bear them a'. 
Though aft I'll heave a sigh for Caledonia. 

But should riches e'er be mine, and my Jeanie 

still be true, 
Then blaw, ye favourin' breezes, till my nativs 

land I view ; 
Then I'll kneel on Scotia's shore, while th« 

heart-felt tear shall fa'. 
And never leave mv Jean and Caledonia. 



• From Johnson's Scots Musical Museum, vol. III. 
1790. The two first stanzas, however, appear in 
Herd's collection, 1776. 



O, AN YE WERE DEID, GUIDMAN.' 

Tune — " O, an ye war deid, Guidman." 

0, AN ye were deid, guidman. 
And a green truff on your heid, guidman, 
That I might ware my widowheid 
Upon a rantia Highlandman. 

There's sax e^s in the pan, guidman. 
There's sax eggs in the pan, guidman ; 
There's ane to you, and twa to me. 
And three to our John Highlandman. 

There's beef into the pot, guidman, 
There's beef into the pot, guidman ; 
The banes for you, and the broe for me, 
And the beef for our John Highlandman. 

There's sax horse in the sta', guidman. 
There's sax horse in the sta', guidman ; 
There's ane to you, and twa to me, 
And three to our John Highlandman. 

There's sax kye in the byre, guidman, 
There's sax kye in the byre, guidman ; 
There's nane o' them yours, but there's twa a 

them mine. 
And the lave is our John Highlandman's. 



168 



BURNS' WORKS. 



OH, WHAT A PARISH ! 

AOAK CBAWFORS. 

TuiM— " Bonnie Dundee." 

0, what a parish, what a terrible parish, 
O, what a parish is that of Dunkell f 

They bae hangit the minister, drouned the 
precentor, 
Dung down the steeple, and drucken the 

heai 

Though the steeple was doun, the kirk was still 
stannin ; - 

They biggit a lum where the bell used to hang ; 
A itell-pat they gat, and they brewed Hieland 
whisky; 
On Sundays they drank it, and rantit and sang! 
O, what a parish, §-c. 

Oh, had you but seen how gracefu' it Inikit, 
To we the crammed pews sae socially join ! 

Macdonald, the piper, stuck up i' the poupit, 
He made the pipes skirl sweet music divine ! 
O, what a parish, ^c. 

When the heart-cheerin spirit had mountit the 
garret, 
To a ball on the green they a' did adjourn ; 
Maids, wi* their coats kiltit, they skippit and 
liltitj 
When tired, they shook hands, and a hame 
did return. 

O, what a parish, 8^c. 

Wad the kirks in our Britain haud sic social 
meetings, 
Nae warning they'd need fiae a far-tinkling 
beU; 
For true love and friendship wad ca' them the- 
gither. 
Far better than roaring o' horrors o' hell.* 
0, what parish, Sfc, 



OLD KING COUL. 

OtD King Coul was a jolly old soul. 

And a jolly old soul was he ; 
And old King Coul he had a brown bowl, 

And they brought him in fiddlers three ; 
And every fiddler was a very good fiddler. 

And a very good fiddler was he : 
Fiddle-diddle, fiddle-diddle, went the fiddlers 
three : 
And there's no a lass in a' Scotland, 

Compared to our sweet Maijorie. 

Old King Coul was a jolly old soul, 
And a jolly old soul was he ; 



Old King Coul, he had a brown boivl, 
And they brought him in pipers three ; 
Ha-diddle, how-diddle, ha-diddle, how-diddle, 

went the pipers three ; 
Fiddle-diddle, fiddle-diddle, Avent the fiddlers 
three : 
And there's no a lass in a* the land. 
Compared to our sweet Marjorie. 

Old King Coul was a jolly old soul. 

And a jolly old soul was he ; 
Old King Coul, he had a brown bowl. 
And they brought him in harpers three : 
Twingle-twangle, twingle-twangle, went the 

harpers ; 
Ha-diddle, how-diddle, ha-diddle, how -diddle, 

went the pipers ; 
Fiddle-diddle, fiddle-diddle, went the fiddlers 
three : 
And there's no a lass in a' the land, 
Compared to our sweet Marjorie. 

Old King Coul was a jolly old soul, 
And a jolly old soul was he ; 
Old King Coul, he had a brown bowl. 

And they brought him in trumpeters three : 
Twarra-rang, twarra-rang, went the trumpet- 
ers; 
Twingle-twangle, twingle-twangle, went the 

harpers ; 
Ha-diddle, how-diddle, ha-diddle, how-diddle, 

went the pipers ; 
Fiddle-diddle, fiddle-diddle, went the fiddlers 
three ; 
And there's no a lass in a' Scotland, 
Compared to sweet Marjorie. 

Old King Coul was a jolly old soul. 

And a jolly old soul was he ; 
Old King Coul, he bad a brown bowl, 
And they brought him in drummers three ! 
Rub-a-dub, rub-a-dub, went the drummers ; 
Twarra-rang, twarra-rang, went the trumpet- 
ers; 
Twingle-twangle, twingle-twangle, went the 

harpers ; 
Ha-diddle, how-diddle, ha-diddle, how-diddle, 

went the pipers ; 
Fiddle-diddle, fiddle-diddle, went the fiddlers 
three : 
And there's no a lass in a' the land, 
Compared to fcweet Marjorie. 



• Crawford, the inditer of this curious frolic, was a 
tailor in Edinburgh, and the author of some other good 



POVERTY PARTS GUDE COMPANIE, 



JOANKA BAILLIE. 



Tune—" Todlin hame.' 



Wren white was my o'erlay as firam o' the linB, 
And siller was clinkin' my pouches within ; 



SONGS. 



1§9 



When my lambkins were blcatiag on meadow 

■ and brae ; 
As I gaed to my love in new deeding sae gay, 

Kind was she, 

And my friends were free ; 

But poverty parts gude companie. 

How swift pass'd the minutes and hours of de- 
light ! 
The i)iper play'd cheerly, the crusie burn'd 

bright ; 
And link'd in my hand was the maiden sae dear, 
As she footed the floor in her holiday gear. 
Woe is nie, 
And can it then be, 
That poverty pai ts bic cunipaiiie ! 

We met at the fair, we met at the kiil<, 

We met in the suiisliiMc, arnl met in the mirk ; 

And 'he sounds of her voice, and the blinks of 

her een, 
The cheering and life of my bo^mii have been. 

Leaves frae the tree 

At Martinmas flee ; 

And poverty j)arts sweet companie. 

At biidal and infare I've braced me wi' pride ; 
The bntse I hae won, and a kiss o' the bride ; 
And loud was the laughter gay fellows among, 
WTien I utter'd my banter an<l ciiunis'd my song. 

Dowie to dree 

Are jesting and glee. 

When poverty parts gude companie. 

Wherever I gaed the blythe lasses smiled sweet. 

And mithers and aunties were mair than dis- 
creet. 

While kebbuck and bicker were set on the 
board ; 

But now they pass by me, and never a word. 
So let it be, 

For the worldly and slie 
Wi' poverty keep nae companie. 



WILLIE WAS A WANTON WAG. 

WILLIAM WALKINGSHAW OF WALKINGSHAW. 
Tune—" Willie was a wanton Wag." 

Willie was a wanton wag. 

The blythest lad that e'er I saw : 
At bridals still he bore the brag. 

And carried aye the gree awa. 
His doublet was of Shetland shag, 

And wow but Willie he was braw ; 
And at his shouthers hung a tag 

That pleased the lasses best of a'. 

He was a man without a clag ; 

His heart wa-s frank, without a flaw ; 
And aye whatever Willie said, 

It still was hadden as a law. 



His boots they were made of the jag, 
When he went to the weapon-shaw ; 

Upon the green uane durst him brag, 
The fient a ane amang them a'. 

And was not Willie weel worth gowd ? 

He wan the love o' grit and sma* ; 
For, after he the bride had kiss'd, 

He kiss'd the lasses haill-sale a*. 
Sae merrily round the ring they row'd. 

When by the hand he led them a' ; 
And smack on smack on them bestow'd, 

By virtue of a standing law. 

Anil was na Willie a great loun. 

As shyre a lick as e'er was seen ? 
When he danced with the lasses round, 

The bri(!egroom spier'd where he had been. 
Qiiodi Willie, I've been at the ring ; 

Wi' bobbin', faith, my shanks are sair j 
(iae ca' the bride and maidens in, 

For Willie he dow do na mair. 

Then rest ye, Willie, I'll gae out, 

And for a wee fill up the ring ; 
But shame licht on his souple snout ' 

He wanted Willie's wanton fling. 
Then straight he to the bride did fare, 

Says, Weel's me on your bonny face ; 
With hcbbin' Willie's shanks are sair. 

And I am come to fill his place. 

Bridegroom, says she, you'll spoil the dance. 

And at the ring you'll aye be lag, 
Unless like Willie ye advance ; 

Oh, Willie has a wanton leg ! 
For wi't he learns us a' to steer. 

And foremost aye bears up the ring ; 
We will tiuil nae sic doncin* here, 

If we want Willie's wanton fling,* 



Tin: AULD MAN'S MEAR'S DEAD. 

Tune—" The auld man's meafs dead." 

The auld ma7is jiiear's dead ; 
The puir body's mears dead ; 
The auld man's meat's dead, 
A mile aboon Dutidee. 

There was hay to ca', and lint to lead, 
A bunder hotts o' muck to spread. 
And peats and truffs and a' to lead— 
And yet the jaud to dee ! 

The auld man's, S^c. 

She had the fiercie and the fleuk, 
The wheezloeh and the wanton yeuk ; 
On ilka knee she bad a breuk — 
What ail'd the beast to dee ? 
The avid man's, S^c. 



* From the Tea-Table Miscellany, 1754. A» it U 
there signed by the initials of the author, there ariaes 
a prcsuniptiun that he wa& alive, and a friend of Ram* 
lay, at the period of the publication of that wwik 



170 



BURNS' WORKS. 



She was lang-tootK'd and blencli-lippit, 
He»m-hough'd and haggis-fiUit, 
Lang-neckit, chandler-chaftit, 
And yet the jaud to dee ! • 

yhe auld matCs, ^c. 



ROY'S WIFE OF ALDIVALLOCH. 

MRS. GRANT OF CARRON. 

Tune—" The Ruffian's Rant." 

Jtoy's wife of Aldivalloch, 
Roy's wife of Aldivalloch, 
Wat ye how she cheated me, 
JLs I came o'er the braes of JBalloch ? 

She vow'd, she swore, she wad be mine ; 

She said she lo'ed me best of onie ; 
But, ah ! the fickle, faithless quean, 

She's ta'en the carle, and left her Johuie. 
Hoy's wife, ^c. 

Oh, she was a canty quean. 

And wcel could dance the Hieland walloch ! 
How happy I, had she been mine, 

Or I been Roy of Aldivalloch ! 
Roy's wife, S^c. 

Her hair sae fair, her een sae dear, 

Her wee bit mou' sae sweet and bonnie ! 

To me she ever will be dear, 

Though she's for ever left her Johnie. 
Roy's wife, Sfc. 



STEER HER UP AND HAUD HER 
GAUN. 

7'une--" Steer her up and baud her gaun." 

O STKER her up and baud her gaun ; 
Her mother's at the mill, jo : 



A^ But gin she wiana tak a man, 
E'en let her tak her will, jo. 

Pray thee, lad, leave silly thinking ; 
Cast thy cares of love away ; 

Let's our sorrows drown in drinking ; 
'TLs dafhn langer to delay. 

See that shining glass of claret, 

How invitingly it looks ! 
Take it aff, and let's have mair o't ; 

Pox on fighting, trade, and books ! 
Let's have pleasure, while we're able ; 

Bring us in the ineikle bowl ; 
Place't on the middle of the table ; 

And let wind and weather gowl. 

Call the drawer ; let him fill it 

Fou as ever it can hold : 
Oh, tak tent ye diuna s])ill it ; 

'Tis mair precious far than gold. 
By you've drunk a dozen bumpers, 

Bacchus will begin to prove, 
Spite of Venus and her mumpers, 

Drink inpr better is than love. 



• The late Rev. Mr. Clunie, minister of the parish 
of Borthwick, near Edinburgh, (who was so enthusias- 
tically fond of singing Scottish songs, that he used to 
hang his watch round the candle on Sunday evenings, 
and wait anxiously till the conjunction of the hands at 
12 o'clock permitted him to break out in one of his 
favourite oitties), was noted for the admir.ible manner 
in which he sung " Bonny Dundee," " Waly, waly, 
up yon bank," " The Auld Man's Mcar's dead," with 
many other old Scottish ditties. One day, happening 
to meet with some friends at a tavern in Dalkeith, he 
was solicited to favour the company with the latter 
humorous ditty: which he was accordingly singing 
with his usual effect and brilliancy, when the w oman 
who kept the house thrust her head in at the door, and 
added, at the conclusion of one of the choruses, " Od, 
the auld man's meat's dead, sureencuch. Your horse, 
minister, has hanged itsell at my door." Such was 
really the fact. The minister, on going into the house, 
had tied his horse by a rope to a hook, or ring, near 
the door, and as he was induced to stay much longer 
than he intended, the poor animal, either through ex- 
haustion, or a sudden fit of disease, fell down, and was 
strangled. He was so much mortified by this unhappy 
accident, the coincidence of which with the subject of 
his song was not a little striking, that, all his life aftsr, 
he could never be persuaded to sing " The Auld Man's 
Hmi'i i^ttA" again. 



SY.MON BRODIE. 

Tune — " Symon Brodie." 

SvMON Broihe had a cow, 

The cow was lost, and he could na find her ; 
When he had done v.-hat man could do. 

The cow cam haine, and her tail behind her. 
Honest auld. Symon Jirodie, 
Sti'pid auld doitit bndie ! 

Til awa to the North countrie. 
And see my ain dear Symon Brodie. 

Symon Brodie had a wife. 

And, wow ! but she was braw and bonnie ; 
She took the dish-clout atf the buik, 

And preen'd it to her cockernonie. 
Honest auld Symon Brodie, §•«. 



NEIL GOW'S FAREWELL TO 
WHISKY, 

Tune—" Farwell to Whisky." 

You've surely heard o' famous Neil, 
The man that played the fiddle weel ; 
I wat he was a canty chiel, 

And dearly loe'd the whisky, O. 
And, aye sin he wore the tartan trewB, 
He dearly lo'ed the Athole brose ; 
And wae was he, you may suppose, 

To play farewell to whisky, O. 

Alake, quoth Noil, I'm frail and auld, 
And find my blude grow unco cauld ; 
I think 'twad make me blythe and bauld^ 
A wee drap Highland whiskv, 0. 



SONGS. 



171 



Yet tlie doctors they do a' agree, ' 
That whisky's no the drink for me. 
Saul I quoth Neil, 'twill spoil my glee, 
Should they part me and whisky, O. 

Though I can baith get wine and ale, 
And find my head and fingers hale, 
I'll be content, though legs should fail. 

To play farewell to whisky, O 
But still I think on auld lang syne. 
When Paradise our friends did tyne, 
Because something ran in their mind, 

Forbid like Highland whisky, O. 

Come, a' ye powers o' music, come ; 
I find my heart grows unco glum ; 
My fiddle-stringB will no play bum. 

To say, Fareweel to whisky, O. 
Yet I'll take my fiddle in my hand. 
And screw the pegs up while they'll stand, 
To make a lamentation grand, 

On gnde autd Highland whisky, O. 



THE LAMMIE. 

HECTOR UACKXILt. 

TulU—" Whar hae ye been a' day." 

Wbar hae ye been a* day, 

My boy Tammy ? 
I've been by bum and flow'ry brae. 
Meadow green and mountain grey. 
Courting o' this young thing. 

Just come frae her mammy. 

And whar gat ye that yonng thing. 

My boy Tammy ? 
I got her down in yonder howe. 
Smiling on a bonnie knowe. 
Herding ae wee lamb and ewe, 

For her poor mammy. 

What said ye to the bonnie bairn. 

My boy Tammy ? 
I praised her een, sae lovely blue. 
Her dimpled cheek and cherry mou ;— 
I pree'd it aft, as ye may trow ! — 

She said she'd tell her mammy. 

I held her to my beating heart, 

My young, my smiling lammie ! 

I hae a house, it cost me dear, 

I've wealth o' plenishen and gear ; 

Ye'sc get it a', were't ten times mair, 
Gin ye will leave your mammy. 

The smile gaed aff lier bonnie face — 

I maunna leave my mammy. 
She's gien me meat, she's gien me claise, 
She's been my comfort a' my days :— 
My father's death brought nionie wae»— 
I caona leave my mammy. 



We'll tak her hame and mak her fain, 
My ain kind-hearted lammie. 

We'll gie her meat, we'll gie her claise. 

We'll be her comfort a' her days. 

The wee thing gies her hand, and sa.j%-^ 
There ! gang and ask my mammy. 

Has she been to the kirk wi* thee. 

My boy Tammy ? 
She has been to the kirk wi' me, 
And the tear was in her ee : 
For O ! she's but a young thing. 

Just come frae her mammy. 



THE WEE WIFIKIE, 

DR. A. GKDSES. 

Tune—" The wee bit Willkie." 

There was a wee bit wifikie was conun* fraa 

the fair, 
Had got a wee bit drappikie, that bred her 

muckle care ; 
It gaed about the wifie's heart, and sht began 

to spew : 

! quo' the wifikie, I wish I binna fou. 
I wish I binna fou, I wish I binna fou, 
O ! quo' the wifikie, I wish I binna fou. 

If Johnnie find me barley-sick, I'm sure he'll 

claw my skin ; 
But I'll lie doun and tak a nap before that I 

gae in. 
Sittin' at the dyke-side, and takin* o* her nap, 
By cam a packman laddie, wi' a little pack. 
Wi' a little pack, quo she, wi' a little pack, 
By cam a packman laddie, wi' a little pack. 

He's clippit a* her gowden locks, sae bonnie uA 

sae lang ; 
He's ta'en her purse and a' her placks, and fast 

awa he ran : 
And when the wifie wakened, her head wa« 

like a bee, 
Oh ! quo' the wifikie, this is nae me. 
This is nae me, quo' she, this is nae me ; 
Somebody has been fellin' me, and this is UM 

me. 

1 met wi' kindly company, and birl'd my baw* 

bee ! 
And still, if this be Bessikie, three placks ri- 

main wi' me : 
And I will look the pursie neuks, see gin tha 

cunyie be ; — 
There's neither purse nor plack about nw ! 

This is nae me. 
This is nae me, &c. 

I have a little honsikie, but and a kindly man ; 
A dog, they ca' him Doussikie ; if this be mc, 
he'll fawn ] 



^^ 



BURNS' WORKS. 



And Johnnie he'll come to the door, and kindly 

welcome gie, 
And a' the bairns on the iloor-hcad will dance, 

if this be me. 
Will dance, if this be me, &c. 

The nicht was late, and dang out weet, and, 

oh, but it was dark ; 
The doggie heard a body's fit, and he began to 

bark : 
O, when she heard the doggie bark, and ken- 

nin' it was he, 
O, weel ken ye, Doussiekie, quo she, this is nae 

me. 
This is nae me, &e. 

When Johnnie heard his Bessie's word, fast to 

the door he ran : 
Is that you, Bessikie .' — Wow, na, man ! 
Be kind to the bairns a', and weil mat ye be ; 
And farcweel, Johnnie, ouo' she, this is nae me. 
This is uae me, &c. 

John ran to the minister ; bis hair stood a' on 

end: 
I've gotten sic a fright, Sir, I fear I'll never 

mend ; 
My wife's come hanie without a head, crying 

out most pitcouslie : 
Oh, fareweel, Johnnie, ijuo' she, tliisisnaeme ! 
This is nae me, &c. 

Tlie tale you tell, the parson said, is wonderful 

to me. 
How that a wife without a head should speak, 

or hear, or see ! 
But things that happen hereabout so strangely 

alter' d be, 
That I could maist wi' Bessie say, 'Tis neither 

you nor she ! * 
Neither you nor she, quo' he, neither you 

nor she ; 
Wow, na, Johnnie man, 'tis neither you nor 



Now Johnnie he cam hame again, and wow, 

but he was fain, 
To see bis little Bessikie come to hersell again. 
He got her sittin' on a stool, wi' Tibbock on 

her knee : 
O come awa, Johnnie, quo' she, come awa to 

me ; 
For I've got a drap wi* Tibbikie, and this is 

now me. 
This is now me, quo' she, this is now me ; 
I've got a drap wi' Tibbikie, and this is now 

me. 



• A Jacobite allusion, probably to the cbange of the 
Btuait for the Brunswick dynasty, in 1714. 



FAREWELL TO AYRSHIRE. 



Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure, 
Scenes that former thoughts renew. 

Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasare. 
Now a sad and last adieu ! 

Bonny Doon, sae sweet and gloamin, 
Fare thee weel before I gang ! 

Bonny Doon, whare, early roaming. 
First I weav'd the rustic sang ! 

Bowers, adieu, whare Love, decoying, 
First inthrall'd this heart o* mine, 

There the saftest sweets enjoying,— 
Sweets that Mem'ry ne'er shall tyne ! 

Friends, so near my boson ever, 
Ye hae rendered moment's dear ; 

But, alas ! when forc'd to sever, 
Then the stroke, O, how severe ! 

Friends ! that parting tear reserve it, 
Tho' 'tis doubly dear to me ! 

Could I think I did deserve it. 
How much happier would I be ! 

Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure, 
Scenes that former thoughts renew. 

Scenes of woe and scenes of plessure. 
New a sad and last adieu i 



TIBBIE FOWLER.* 



Tune—" Tibbie Fowler." 



Tibbie Fowi.er o' the Glen, 

Tliere's ower mony wooing at her j 
Tibbie Fowler o' the Glen, 

There's ower mony wooing at hei'. 
Wooiti' at her, pu'in' at her, 

Courtin her, arid canna get her } 
Filthy elf, if s for her pelf 

That a' the lads are wooing at her. 

Ten cam east, and ten cam west ; 
Ten cam rowin' ower the water ; 



» Said to have been written by the Rev. Dr. 

Strachan, late minister of Camwath, although cer- 
tainly proiinded upon a song of older standinp, the 
name of which is mentioned in the Tea- Table Miseef. 
lany. The two first verses of the song appeared in 
Herd's Collection, 1776, 

There is a tradition at Leith that Tibbie Fowler was 
a real person, and married, some time during the se- 
venteenth century, to the representative of the attaint, 
ed family of Logan of Restalrig, whose town-house, 
dated 1636, is still pointed out at the head of a street 
in Leith, called the Sheriff-brae. The marriage-con- 
tract between Logan and Isabella Fowler is still extant, 
in the possession of a gentleman resident at iieiCh>-~ 
See CampbeU'i MUion/ qf Leith, note, p. S\i, 



SONGS. 



m 



Twa cam down tlie lang dyke-side : 
There's twa-and-thirty wooiii' at her. 
Wooin' at her, §'c. 

There's seven but, and seven ben, 
Seven in the pantry wi' her ; 

T^venty head about the door : 

There's ane-and-forty wooin' at her. 
Wooin' at her, §■£• 

She's got pendles in her lugs ; 

Cockle-shells wad set her better ! 
High-heel'd shoon, and siller tags ; 

And a* the lads are wooin' at her. 
Wooin' at her, &fc. 

Be a lassie e'er sae black, 

Gin she hae the penny siller, 

Set her up on Tintock tap, 

The wind will blaw a man till her. 
Wooin' at her, Sfc. 

fie a lassie e'er sae fair. 

An she want the penny siller, 

A flie may fell her in the air, 
Before a man be even'd till her. 
Wooin' at her, 8fc, 



ANNIE LAURIE. • 

MAXWEtTON banks are bonnic, 

Where early fa's the dew ; 
Wliere me and Annie Laurie 

Made up the promise tnie ; 
Made up the promise true, 

And never forget will I ; 
And for bonnie Annie Laurie 

I'll lay me doua and die. 

She's backit like the peacock ; 

She's breistit like the swan ; 
She's jimp about the middle ; 

Her waist ye weel micht span : 
Her waist ye well micht span. 

And she has a rolling eye ; 
And for bonnie Annie Laurie 

I'll lay me doun and die. 



• These two verses, which are in a style wonderful- 
ly tender and chaste for their age, were written by a 
Mr. Douglas of Fingland, upon Anne, one of the four 
daughters of Sir Robert Laurie, first Baronet of Max- 
welton, by his second wife, who was a daughter of 
Riddell of Minto. As Sir Robert was created a ba- 
ronet in the year 1685, it is probable that the verses 
were composed about the end of the seventeenth or the 
beginning of the eighteenth century. It is painful to 
record, that, notwithstanding the ardent and cliival- 
rous affection displayed by Mr. Douglas in his poem, 
he did not obtain the heroine for a wife : She wiis mar- 
ried to Mr. Fer|(uson of Cralgdarroch.— See " .4 Bal- 
M Book," {printed at Edinburgh in 1824), p. 107. 



THE BRISK YOUNG LAD. 

Tune-" Bung your eye in the raoming." 

There cam a young man to my daddie's door> 
My daddie's door, my daddie's door ; 
There cam a young man to my daddie's door, 
Cam seeking me to woo. 

And wmu ! but he was a hraw young lad, 
A brisk yoinig lad, and a brow young lad ; 
And tooiv ! but he was a braw young lad, 
Cain seeking me to woo. 

But I was baking when he came, 
When he came, when he came ; 
I took him in and gicd him a scone, 
To thowe his frozen mou. 

And ivow ! but he was, 8fc. 

I set him in aside the bink ; 
I gae him bre:i(l and ale to drink ; 
And ne'er a blythe styme wad he blink, 
Until his wanie was fou. 

Aiid wow ! bxit he was, SfC. 

Gae, get you gone, you cauldrife wooer, 
Ye sour-looking, cauldrife wooer ! 
I straightway show'd him to the door. 
Saying, Come nae mair to woo. 

And wow ! but he was, SfC 

There lay a deuk-dub before the doori 
Before the door, before the door; 
There lay a deuk-iliil) before the door, 
Aiul tliere fell he, I trow ! 

And wow ! but he was, Sfc. 

Out cam the guiihnan, and high he shouted; 
Out cam the guidwife, and laigh she louted ; 
And a' the toun-neebors were gather'd about it; 
And there lay he, 1 trow ! 

And wow f but he was, Sfc. 

Then out cam I, and sncer'd and smiled ; 
Ye cam to woo, but ye're a* beguiled ; 
Ye've fa'en i' the dirt, and ye're a' befyled ; 
We'll hae nae mair o' you ! 

And wow I but he was, S^c. 



KIND ROBIN LO'ES ME. 
THine—" Robin lo'es me." 

RoniN is my only jo, 

For Robin lias the art to lo'e ; 

Sae to his suit I mean to bow. 

Because I ken he lo'es me. 
Happy, happy was the shower, 
That led me to his birken bower, 
Where first of love I fand the power, 

And kenn'd that Robin lo'ed me. 

They speak of napkins, speak of rings, 
Speak of gluves and kiesia' itrings ; 



it* 

And name t tliousand bonnie tomgs, 
Aad ca' them signs he lo'es me. 

But I'd prefer a smack o' Rob, 

Seated on the velvet fog, 

T« gifts as lang's a plaiden wab ; 
Because I ken he lo'es me. 

He's tall and sonsie, frank and free, 
Lff'ed by a', and dear to me ; 
Wi' him I'd live, wi' him I'd dee. 

Because my Robin lo'es me. 
My tittie Mary said to me. 
Our courtship but a joke wad be. 
And I or lang be made to see 

That Robin didna lo'e me. 



But little kens she what has Ticeu, 
Me and my honest Rob between ; 
And in his wooing, O sae keen 

Kind Robin is that lo'es me. 
Then fly, ye lazy hours, away. 
And hasten on the happy day, 
When, Join your hands. Mess John will say, 

And mak him mine that lo'es me. 

Till then, let every chance unite 
To fix our love and give delight. 
And I'll look down oh such wi' spite, 
Wha doubt that Robin lu'es me. 
O hey, Robin ! quo' she, 
O hey, Robin ! quo' she, 
O hey, Robin ! quo' she ; 
Kind Robin lo'es me. 



BURNS' WORKS. 



THE POETS. WHAT FOOLS THEY'RE 
TO DEAVE US. 

ROBERT GILFII.LAN. 
Tnne—" Fy, let us a' to the bridal." 

The poets, what fools they're to deave us, 

How ilka ane's lassie's sae fine ; 
The tane is an angel — and, save us ! 

The neist ane you meet wi's divine ! 
And then there's a lang-nebbit sonntt, 

Be't Katie, or Janet, or Jean ; 
And the moon, or some fur-awa planet's 

Compared to the blink o' her een. 

The earth an' the sea they've ransackit 

For sim'lies to set off their charms ; 
Aad no a wee iiow'r but's attaukit 

By poets, like bumbees, in swarms. 
Kow, what siguities a' this clatter. 

By ehiel* that the truth winna tell ? 
Wad it no be lettlin' the matter, 

To aay, Lass, ye're just like your sell ? 

Ab* then there's nae end to the evil. 
For they are no deaf to the din — 

That like me ony puir luckless deevil 
P»ur KMTce look the gate thejr arc in ! 



But e'en let them be, wi' their seornin' ! 

There's a lassie whase name I could tell ; 
Her smile is as sweet as the mornin*— 

But whisht ! I am ravin' mysell. 

But he that o' ravin's convickit, 

When a bonnie sweet lass he thinks on, 
May he ne'er get anither strait jacket 

"Than that buckled to by Mess John ! 
An' he wha — though cautious an' canny— 

The charms o' the fair never saw. 
Though wise as King Solomon's grannie, 

I swear is the daftest of a'. 



'TWAS WITHIN A MILE OF EDIN- 
BURGH TOWN. 

Tune—'^ Within a mile of Edinburgh." 

'TwAS within a mile of Edinburgh town, 

In the rosy time of the year ; 

Sweet flowers bloom'd, and the grass was down* 

And each shepherd woo'd his dear. 

Bonny Jockey, biythe and gay, 

Kiss'd sweet Jenny, making hay. 

The lassie blush'd, and frowning, cried, *' No, 

no, it will not do ; 
I cannot, cannot, wonnot, wonnot, mannot buc- 
kle too." 

Jockey was a wag that never would wed, 
Though long he had followed the lass ; 

Contented she earned and eat her own bread, 
And merrily turn'd up the grass. 
Bonny Jockey, biythe and free. 
Won her heart right merrily : 

Yet still she blush'd, and frowning, cried, " No, 
no, it will not do ; 

I cannot, cannot, wonnot, wonnot, mannot buc- 
kle too." 

But when he vow'd he would make her bii 

bride. 
Though his flocks and herds were not few. 
She gave him her hand, and a kiss beside. 
And vow'd she'd for ever be true. 

Bonny Jockey, biythe and firee, 

Won her heart right merrily : 
At church she no more frowning, cried, " No, 

no, it will not do ; 
I cannot, cannot, wonnot, wonnot, mannot bne- 

kle too." 



MY LU\^'S IN GERMANIE. 

Tune—" My luve's in Germanie." 

Mr luve's in Germanie ; 

Send him hame, send him hame ; 
My luve's in Germanie } 

Send him hame. 



SOMGS. 



175 



My luve*« in Germanie, 
Fighting brave for royalty ; 
He may ne'er his Jeanie see ; 

Send him hame, send him hame ; 
He may ne'er his Jeanie see ; 

Send hira hame. , 

He's as brave as brave can be ; 

Send him hame, send him hame ; 
Our faes are ten to three ; 

Send him hame. 
Our faes are ten to three ; 
He maun either fa' or flee, 
In the cause of loyalty ; 

Send him hame, send him hame ; 
In the cause of loyalty ; 

Send him hame. 

Your luve ne'er learnt to flee, 

Bonnie dame, winsome dame ; 
Your luve ne'er learnt to flee, , 

Winsome dame. 
Your luve ne'er learnt to flee, 
But he fell in Germanie, 
Fighting brave far loyalty, 

I^Iournfu* dame, mournfu' dame ; 
Fighting brave for loyalty, 

Mouvnfu' dame. 

He'll ne'er come ower the sea ; 

Willie's slain, Willie's slain ; 
He'll ne'er come ower the sea ; 

Willie's gane ! 
He will ne'er come ower the sea. 
To his luve and ain countrie. 
This warld's nae mair for me ; 

Willie's gane, Willie's gane ; 
This warld's nae mair for me ; 

WUlie'a gane ! 



TO THE KYE WI' ME 

WAS na* she worthy o' kisses. 
Far mae than twa or three. 

And worthy o' bridal blisses, 
Wha gaed to the kye wi' me. 

O gang to the kye wi' me, my love, 

Gang to the kye wi' me, 
Ower the burn and through the broom, 
And I'll be merry wi' thee. 

1 hae a house a biggin, 

Anither that's like to fa'. 
And I love a scomfu' lassie, 
Wha gri«ves me warst of a*. 

O gang to the kye wi' me, my love, 

O gang to the kye wi' me. 
Ye'll think nae mair o' your mither 
Amang the broom wi' me. 

I hae a house a biggin, 
Aaitber that's like to fa', 



I hae noo the lassie wi' baird, 
Which vexes me warst of a*. 

gang to the kye wi' me, my love, 
Gang to the kye wi' me, 

1 hae an auld mither at hame, 

Will doodle it on her knee. 



THE MILLER O' DEE. 
Tune—" The MUler of Dee." 

There was a jolly miller once 

Lived on the river Dee ; 
He wrought and sung from morn till night, 

No lark more blythe than he. 
And this the burden of his song 

For ever used to be ; 
I care for nobody, no, not I, 

If nobody cares for me. 
And this, Sfc. 

When spring began its merry career, 

O, then his heart was gay ; 
He feared not summer's sultry heat, 

Nor winter's cold decay. 
No foresight marred the miller's cheer. 

Who oft did sing and say. 
Let others live from year to year, 

I'll live from day to day. 
Ho foresight, Sfc. 

Then, like this miller, bold and free. 

Let us be glad and sing ; 
The days of youth are made for glee. 

And life is on the wing. 
The song shall pass from me to you. 

Around this jovial ring. 
Let heart, and hand, and voice agree : 

And so, God save our king.* 
The song, S^c. 



SAW YE MY FATHER? 
Tune-'" Saw ye my father ?" 

" O SAW ye my father, or saw ye my mother, 

Or saw ye my true love John ?" 
" I saw not your father, I saw not your mother, 

But I saw your true love John." 

" It's now ten at night, and the stars gie nae 
light, 
And the bells they ring ding dong ; 
He's met with some delay, that causeth him to 
stay ; 
But he will be here ere long." 

The surly auld carle did nacthing but tnarle, 
And Jennie's face it grew red ; 



• From an old MS. copy. The song seems to hatt 
bc«n first printed in Hcril's Collection, 1776t 



us 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Yet, tliiiugli lie oftea gightd, he ne'er a word 
replied, 
Till all were asleep In bed. « 

Up Johnie rose, and to the door he goes, 

And gently tirled at the pin. 
The lassie, taking tent, unto the door she went, 

And she opened and let him in. 

" And are ye come at last, and do I hold ye fast ? 

And is my Johnie true ?'' 
" I have nae time to tell, but sae laug's I like 
mysell, 

Sae lang sail I love you." 

" Flee up, flee up, my bonnie grey cock, 

And craw whan it is day : 
Your neck shall be like the bonuie beaten gowd, 

And your wings of the silver grey." 

The cock proved fause, and untrue he was ; 

For he crew an hour ower sune. 
The lassie thought it day, when she sent her 
love awaiy, 

And it was but a blink o' the mune. 



TAM'O' THE BALLOCH. 



H. AINSLEY. 

Tune—" The Campbells are coming. 

In the Nick o' the Balloch lived Muirland Tam, 
Weel stentit wi' brochan and braxie-ham ; 
A breist hke a buird, and a back like a door, 
And a wapping wame that hung down afore. 

But what's come ower ye, Muirland Tam ? 
For your leg's now grown like a wheel-barrow 

tram ; 
Your ee it's faun in — your nose it's faun out, 
And the skin o' your cheek's like a dirty clout. 

ance, like a yaud, ye spankit the bent, 
Wi' a fecket sae fou, and a stocking sae stent. 
The strength o' a slot — the wecht o' a cow ; 
Now, Tammy, my man, ye're grown like a grew. 

1 mind sin' the blink o' a canty quean 

Could watered your mou and lichtit your een ; 
Now ye leuk like a yowe, when ye should be a 

ram ; 
O what can be wrang wi' ye, Muirland Tam ? 

Has some dowg o' the yirth set your gear abreed ? 
Hae they broken your heart or broken your head ? 
H.io they rackit wi' rungs or kittled wi' steel ? 
Or, Tammy, my man, hae ye seen the deil ? 

Wha ance was your match at a stoup and a tale ? 
Wi* a voice like a sea, and a drouth like a whale? 



Now ye peep like a powt ; ye glumph and ye 

gaunt ; 
Oh, Tammy, my man, are ye turned a saunt ? 

Come, lowse your heart, ye man o' the muir j 
We tell our distress ere we look for a cure : 
There's laws for a wrang, and sa's for a sair ; 
Sae, Tammy, my man, what wad ye hae mair ? 

Oh ! neebour, it neither was thresher nor thief, 
That deepened my ee, and lichtened my beef; 
But the word that makes me saewaefu' and wan. 
Is — Tam o' the Balloch's a married man ! 



HAUD AWA FRAE ME DONALD. 

Haud awa, bide awa ! 

Haud awa firae me, Donald : 
I've seen the man I well could love, 
But that was never thee, Donald. 
WI' plumed bonnet waiving proud. 

And claymore by thy knee, Donald, 

And Lord o' Moray's mountains high, 

Thou'rt no a match for me, Donald. 

Haud awa, bide awa, 

Haud awa frae me, Donald, 
What sairs )'our mountains and your lochs, 
I canna swim nor flee Donald : 
But If ye'll come when yon fair sun 
Is sunk beneath the sea, Donald, 
I'll quit my kin, and kilt my cots. 
And take the hills wi* thee, Donald. 

One of the old verses runs thus :— . 

Haud awa, bide awa, 

Haud awa frae me, Donald, 
Keep awa your cauld hand 

Frae my warm knee Donald. 



AULD ROB MORRIS. 
.Tune—" Auld Rob Morris." 

MOTHER. 

AntD Rob Morris, that wons in yon glen. 
He's the king o* guld fallows, and wale o' auld 

men ; 
He has fourscore o' black sheep, and fourscore 

too ; 
Auld Rob Morris Is the man ye maun lo'e. 

DAUGHTER. 

Ilaud your tongue, mother, and let that uhee; 
For liis eild and my eild can never agree : 
'J'iiey'il never agree, and that will bo seen ; 
For he h fourscore, and I'm but fifteen. 



SONGS. 



177 



MOTHER. 

Hand youi" tongue, dochter, and lay by your -pride, 
For he is the bridegroom, and ye'se be the bride j 
He shall lie by your side, and kiss you too ; 
Auld Rob Morris is the man ye maun lo'e. 

DAUGHTER. 

Auld Rob Morris, I ken him fu' weel, 
His back sticks out like ony peat-creel ; 
He's out- shinn'd, in-kneed, and ringle-eyed too ; 
Auld Rob Morris is the man I'll ne'er lo'e. 

MOTHER. 

Though auld Rob Morris be an elderly man. 
Yet his auld brass will buy you a new pan ; 
Then, dochter, ye should na be sa ill to shoe. 
For auld Rob Morris is the man y6 maun lo'e. 

DAUGHTER. 

But auld Rob Morris I never will hae, 
His back is so stiff, and his beard is grown grey ; 
I had rather die than live wi* him a year ; 
Sae mair o' Rob Morris I never will hear. 



THE MALT-MAN. 

The malt-man comes on Monday, 

He craves wonder sair, 
Cries, Dame, come gi'e me my siller. 

Or malt ye sail ne'er get mair. 
I took him into the pantry. 

And gave him some good cock-broo. 
Syne paid him upon a gantree, 

As hostler-wives should do. 

When malt-men come for siller, 

And gaugers with wands o'er soon. 
Wives, till: them a' down to the cellar, 

And clear them as I have done. 
This bewith, when cunzie is scanty, 

Will keep them frao making din ; 
The knack I learu'd frae an auld aunty, 

The snackcst of a' my kin. 

The malt-man is right cunning. 

But I can be as sice, 
And he may crack of his winning, 

When he clears scores with me : 
For come when he likes, I'm ready ; 

But it frae hame I he. 
Let him wait on onr kind lady, 

She'll answer a bill for ine. 



THE AULD WIFE BEYONT THE FIRE. 

There was a wife won'd in a glen, 
And she had dochters nine or ten, 

That sought the house baith hut and ben, 
To find their niani a snishin?. 



77ie auld wife leyoni the fire,' 
The auld wife aniest the fire, 
The auld wife aboon the fire. 
She died for lack of snishing,* 

Her mill into some hole had fawn, 
Whatrecks, quoth she, let it be gawn, 
For I maun hae a young goodman 

Shall furnish me with snishing. 
The auld wife, Sfc. 

Her eldest dochter said right bauld, 
Fy, mother, mind that now ye're auld. 
And if ye with a younker wald, 

He'll waste away your snishing. 
The auld wife, Sfc, 

The youngest dochter ga'e a shout, 
O mother dear ! your teeth's a' out, 
Besides ha'f blind, you have the gout, 

Your mill can had nae snishing. 
The auld wife, t^c. 

Ye lied, ye limmers, cries auld mump. 
For I hae baith a tooth and stump, 
And will nae langer live in dump, 

By wanting of my snishing. 
The auld wife, S^c. 

Thole ye, says Peg, that pawky dut, 
Mother, if ye can crack a nut. 
Then we will a* consent to it. 

That you shall have a snishing. 
The auld wife, Sjv, 

The auld ane did agree to that, 
And they a pistol-bullet gat ; 
She powerfully began to crack. 

To win hersell a snishing. 
TJie auld wife, Sfc, 

Braw sport it was to see her chow't, : 
And 'tween her gums sae squeeze and row'^ 
While frae her jaws the slaver flow'd. 

And ay she curs'd poor stumpy. 
Tlie auld wife, Sfc, 

At last she ga'e a desperate squeer. 
Which brak the lang tooth by the neez. 
And syne poor stumpy was at ease, 

But she tint hopes of snishing. 
The auld wife, S^c. 

She of the task began to tire. 
And fraie her dochters did retire. 
Syne lean'd her down ayont the fire, 

And died for lack of snishing. 
The auld wife, §-c. 

Ye auld wives, notice well this truth, 
Assoon as ye're past mark of mouth. 



Snishing, in its literal meaning, is snuff made of 
tobacrn ; but, in this song, it means tometinMS COD" 
tenement, a husband, love, money, die. 



43 



178 



BURNS* WORKS. 



Ne'er d6 wiiat'fl only fit for youtli, 
And leave aff thoughts of soishing : 

JElse, like this wife heyont the fire, 
Ye''r bairns against you will conspire ; 
Nor will ye get, unless ye hire, 
■A young man with your snishing. 



BESSY BELL AND MARY GRAY. 

O BESSY Bell and Mary Gray, 

They are twa bonny lassies, 
They bigg'd a bow'r oa yon burn-brae, 

And theek'd it o'er wi' rashes. 
Fair Besay Bell 1 loo'd yestreen, 

And thought I ne'er could alter ; 
But Mary Gray's twa pawky een. 

They gar my fancy falter. 

Now Bessy's hair's like a lint tap ; 

She smiles like a May morning, 
When Phoebus starts frae Thetis' lap, 

The hills with rays adorning : 
"White is her neck, saft is her hand, 

Her waist and feet's fu' genty ; 
With ilka grace she can command j 

Her lips, O wow ! they're dainty. 

And Mary's locks are like a craw. 

Her een like diamonds glances ; 
She'a ay sae clean, redd up, and braw. 

She kills whene'er she dances : 
Blythe as a kid, with wit at will, 

She blooming, tight, and tall is ; 
And guides her airs sae gracefu' still. 

O Jove, she's like thy Pallas. 

Dear Bessy Bell and Marj' Gray, 

Ye unco sair oppress us ; 
0«r fancies jee between you twa, 

Ye are sic bonny lassies : 
Wae's me ! for baith I canna get, 

To ane by law we're stented ; 
Then I'll draw cuts, and take my fate. 

And be with ane contented. 



BONNY BARBARA ALLAN. 

It was in and about the Martinmas time, 
When the green leaves were a-falling. 

That Sir John Graeme in the west country 
Fell in love with Barbara Allan. 

He tent his man down through the town. 
To the place where she was dwelling, 

O haste, and come to my master dear, 
Gin ye be Barbara Allan. 

O hooly, hooly rose she up, 

To the place where he was lying, 



And when she drew the curtain by, 
Young man, I think you're dying 

O its I'm sick, and very very sick, 

And 'tis a' for Barbara Allan. 
O the better for me ye's never be, 

Tho' your heart's blood were a-spilling. 

O dinna ye mind, young man, said she. 
When he was in the tavern a-drinking, 

That ye made the healths e;ae round and round. 
And slighted Barbara Allan ? 

He turn'd his face unto the wall, 
And death was with him dealing ; 

Adieu, adieu, my dear friends all, 
And be kind to Barbara Allan. 

And slowly, slowly raise she up. 

And slowly, slowly left him ; 
And sighing, said, she cou'd not stay, 

Since death of life had reft him. 

She had not gane a mile but twa. 

When she heard the dead-bell ringing, 

And every jow that the dead-bell gied. 
It cry'd, Wo to Barbara Allan. 

O mother, mother, make my bed, 

O make it saft and narrow. 
Since my love dy'd for me to-day, 

I'll die for him to-morrow. 



ETTRICK BANKS. 

On Ettrick banks, in a summer's night. 

At s;!owmin^ when the sheep drave hame ', 
I niiit my lassie braw and tight, 

Cime wading;, barefoot, a' her lane : 
My heart giew light, I ran, I flang 

My arms abonit her lily neck, 
And kiss'd and clapp'd her there fou lang ; 

My words they were na mony, feck. 

I said, my lassie, will ye go 

To the highland hills, the Earse to learn ? 
rd baith gi'e thee a cow and ew. 

When ye come to the brigg of Earn. 
At Leith, auld meal comes in, ne'er fash, 

And herrings at the Broomy Law ; 
Chear up your heart, my bonny lass. 

There's gear to win we never saw. 

All day when we have wrought enough. 

When winter, frosts, and snaw begin. 
Soon as the sun gaes west the loch. 

At night when you sit down to spin, 
I'll screw my pipes and play a spring : 

And thus the weary night will end, 
Till the tender kid and lamb-time bring 

Our pleasant summer back again* 



SONGS. 



179 



Syne when the trees are in their bloorii, 

^ And gowans glent o'er ilka field, 
I*U meet my lass among the broom. 

And lead you to my summer-shield. 
Then far frae a' their scornfu* din, 

That make the kindly hearts their sport, 
We'll laugh and kiss, and dance and sing. 

And gar the langest day seem short. 



THE BIRKS OF INVERMAY.' 

BAVID MALLET. 

Tune—" The Birks of Invermay." 

The smiling morn, the breathing spring. 

Invite the tunefii' birds to sing ; 

And, while they warble from the spray, 

Love melts the universal lay. 

Let us, Amanda, timely wise. 

Like them, improve the hour that flies ; 

And in soft raptures waste the day, 

Among the birks of Invermay. 

For soon the winter of the year, 
And age, life's winter, will appear ; 
At this thy living bloom will fade, 
A» that will strip the verdant shade. 
Our taste of pleasure then is o'er. 
The feather'd songsters are no more ; 
And when they drop, and we decay, 
Adieu the birks of Invermay ! 



THE BRAES O' BALLENDEAN. 

DR. BLACKLOCK. 

Tune—" The Braes o' BaUendean." 

Beneath a green shade, a lovely young swain 
Ae evening reclined, to discover his pain ; 
So sad, yet so sweetly, he warbled his woe, 
The winds ceased to breathe, and the fountain to 

flow ; 
Rude winds wi' corapassiou could hear him 

complain. 
Yet Chloe, less gentle, was deaf to his strain. 



• Invermay is a small woody glen, watered bv the 
rivulet May. which there Joins tL river Esm. ^It is 
Sw fr^r^":^ ^^l' '^* '^"''^^ °f Earn, and nearly 
^•^t!!°^Tj'^*'- y^' ^^tof^Ir. Belsches, the pro 
P"^2L°^^}",^P<^("^\regi0Ti. an.l who tak« from ii 
I^»n p IL" •H*^'^"^'":'' "*°''s ^' ^^^ bottom of the 
£. ;hi.fl''"' ^'5^^°^''"' '""^ ^«'e are completely wood • 
ed. chiefly with birches; and it is altogether, in pc^t 
rf natural lovelme«, a scene worthy of the attemion 
of the amatory muse. The course of the May is so 
•unk among rocks that it eanrot be seen, buf^i c^ 
^ilv be traceji in Its progress by another sinse. The 
peculiar sound which it n,.-,kcs in rushing through one 
SJTn'H^h''"' of Its n.irrow. rugged. %nd,o?tuou! 
tfiannel, has occasioned the descriptive aonellation nf 
^tauml^Bu,„bU to bcattachcl to th?t'^uar,e? of 
the vale. Inverm.iy may be at once and correctly de- 
•CTibed as the fairest possible little miniature specimen 
Of cascade scenery. »/v,..uic.i 

TWte WU^lUn'T'^ ^ ^^ ^^ '°'""«' "f '''* Tea. 



How happy, he cried, my moments once flew. 
Ere Chloe's bright charms first flash'd in mf 

view ! 
Those eyes then wi' pleasure the dawn could 

survey ; 
Nor smiled the fair morning mair cheerful than 

they. 
Now scenes of distress please only my sight ; 
I'm tortured in pleasure, and languish in light. 

Through changes in vain relief I pursue. 
All, all but conspire my griefe to renew ; 
From sunshine to zephyrs and shades we repair- 
To sunshine we fly from too piercing an air ; 
But love's ardent fire burns always the same. 
No wiuter can cool it, no summer inflame. 

But see the pale moon, all clouded, retires ; 
The breezes grow cool, not Strephon's desires : 
I fly from the dangers of tempest and wind, 
Yet nourish the madness that preys on my mind. 
Ah, wretch ! how can life be worthy thy care ? 
To lengthen its moments, but lengthens despair.* 



THE BRUaiE 0' THE COWDEN- 
KNOWES. 

Tune—" The Brume o' the Cowdenknowefc" 

How biyth, ilk morn, was I to see 

My swain come ower the hill ! 
He skipt the bum and flew to me : 
I met him with good will. 

Ok, the brume, the bminie, bonnie brumtf 

The brume o' the Cowdenknoioes I 
I wish I were with my dear swain, 
Wilh his pipe and my yowes, 

I wanted neither yowe nor lamb. 

While his flock near me lay ; 
He gather'd in my sheep at night. 

And cheer'd me a' the day. 

Oh, the brume, ^c. 

He tuned his pipe, and play'd sae sweety 

The birds sat listening bye ; 
E'en the dull cattle stood and gazed. 

Charm 'd with the melodye. 

Oh, the brume, 8fc. 

While thus we spent our time, by turns, 

Betwixt our flocks and play, 
I envied not the fairest dame, 

Though e'er so rich or gay. 

Oh, the brume, ^r. 

• The celebrated Tcnducci used losing this lonc. 
wHh ^eat effect, in St. Cecilia's Hall, at'edinbuteK 
about fifty v ears ago. Mr. Ty tier, who was a grrat St 
tron of that obsolete place of amusement, says to Sii 
DissertatioM on Scottish Music, •< Who could hap 
with insensibility, or without being moved in U^e hlS^ 
est degree. 1 endued .inR. ' I'll niver leave tl^/«. 
0,^2 ^«'""^»°' The air wa« compSatS^ 



180 

Hard fate, that 1 sliould banlsli'd be, 
Gang heavily, and mourn, 

Because I loved the kindest swain 
That ever yet was born. 

Oh, the brume, Sfc. 

He did oblige me every hour ; 

Could I but faithful be ? 
He stawe ray heart ; could I refuse 

Whate'er he ask'd of me ? 

Oh, the brume, 8fc. 



My doggie, and my little kit 
That held my wee soup whey, 

My plaidie, brooch, and crookit stick, 
May now lie useless by. 

Oh, the brume, S^c. 

Adieu, y« Cowdenknowes, adieu ! 
Fareweel, a' pleasures there ! 

Ye gods, restore me to my swain- 
Is a' I crave or care. 

Oh, the brume, ^c* 



BURNS' WORKS. 



THE CARLE HE CAM OWER THE 
CRAFT, 

Thint—" Tlie Carle he cam ower the Craft." 

The carle he cam ower the craft, 

Wi' his beard new-shaven ; 
He looked at me as he'd been daft, — 

The carle trowed that T wad hae hiin. 
Hout awa ! I winna hae him ! 

Na, forsooth, I winna hae him ! 
For a' his beard new-shaven, 

Ne'er a bit o' me will hae him. 

A siller brooch he gae me neist. 

To fasten on my curchie nookit ; 
I wore 't a wee upon my breist, 

But soon, alake ! the tongue o't crookit ; 
And sae may his ; I winna hae him ! 

Na, forsooth, I winna hae him ! 
Twice-a-bairu's a lassie's jest ; 

Sae ony fool for me may hae him. 

The carle has nae fault but ane ; 

For he has land and dollars plenty ; 
But, wae's me for him, skin and bane 

Is no for a plump lass of twenty, 
Hout awa, I winna hae him ! 

Na, forsooth, I winna hae him ! 
What signifies his dirty riggs. 

And cash, without a man wi' them ? 



• As the reader may be supposed anxious to know 
■omethins of the place which has thust>een the subject 
of so much poetry, theeditor thinks it proper to inform 
him, that, '• the Cowdenknowes," or, as sometimes 
spelled in old writings, the Coldingkiiowcs, are two 
little hills on the cast side of the vale of Lauderdale, 
Berwickshire. They lie immediately to the south of 
the village of Earlston, celeliratcd as the residence of 
Ihe earliest known Scottish poet, Thomas the Rhymer. 



But should my cankert daddie gat 

Me tak him 'gainst my inclination, 
1 warn the fumbler to beware 

That antlers dinna claim their station. 
Hout awa ! I winna hae him ! 

Na, forsooth, I winna hae him ! 
I'm flee'd to crack the haly band, 

Sae lawty says, I shou'd na hae hira. 



THE WEE THING, 

MACNEIL, 

T^ne—" Bonnie Dundee." 

Saw ye my wee thing? saw ye my ain thing? 

Saw ye my true love down oi^ yon lea ? 
Cross'd she the meadow yestreen at the gloam- 
in' .? 
Sought she the burnie whar flow'rs the haw- 
tree ? 

Her hair it is lint-white ; her skin it is milk- 
white ; 

Dark is the blue o' her saft-roUing ee ; 
Red red her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses ; 

Whar could my wee thing wander frae me ? 

I saw nae your wee thing, I saw nae your ain 
thing, 
Nor saw I your true love down on yon lea ; 
But I met my bonoie. thing late in the gloamin, 
Down by the burnie whar flow'rs the haw- 
tree. 

Her hair it was lint-white ; her skin it was 
milk-white ; 

Dark was the blue o' her saft-i oiling ee ; 
Red were her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses ; 

Sweet were the kisses that she gae to me ! — 

It was na my wee thing, it was na my ain 
thing, 

It was na my true love ye met by the tree : 
Proud is her leal heart ! and modest her nature ! 

She never loed onie till ance she loed me. 

Her name it is Mary ; she's firae Castle-Cary ; 

Aft has she sat, when a bairn, on my knee : 
Fair as your face is, war't fifty times fairer, 

Young bragger, she ne'er would gie kisses to 
thee ! — 

It was, then, your Mary; she's frae Castle- 
Cary ; 
It was, then, your true love I met by the 
tree: 
Proud as her heart is, and modest her nature, 
Sweet were the kisses that she gae to me. — 

Sair gloom'd his dark brow — blood-red his 
cheek grew — 
Wild flash 'd the fire frae his red-rolliog ec ' 



SONGS. 



181 



Ye'se rue sair, this nuiiiiug, your boasts and 
your scoi'nins; : 
Defend ye, fause traitor ! for loudly ye lie. — • 

Awa wi' beguiling ! cried the youth, smiling : 
AfF went the bonnet j the lint- white locks 
flee; 
The belted plaid fa'iiig, her white bosom sbaw- 
ing — 
Fair stood the loved maid wi' the dark-roll- 



ing ee 



Is it my wee thing ! is it mine ain thing ! 

Is it my true love here that I see ! — 
O Jamie, forgie me ; your heart's constant to 

me ; 
I'll never niair wander, dear laddie, fi'ae thee ! 



THE WHITE COCKAI>E. 

Tune—" The White Cockade." 

My love was born in Aberdeen, 
The bonniest lad that e'er was seen ; 
But now he makes oiu- hearts fu' sad — 
He's ta'en the field wi' his white cockade. 

O, he's a. ranting roving blade ! 

O, he's a brisk and a bonng lad ! 

Uetide what may, riy Jfeart is glad 

To see m>/ lad wi' his white cockade. 

O, leeze me on the philabeg, 
The hairy hough, and garter'd leg ! 
But aye the thing that glads my ee, 
Is the white cockade aboon the bree. 
0, he's a ranting, §'c. 

I'll sell my rock, I'll sell my re;!, 
My rippling kame, and spinning wheel, 
To buy my lad a tartan plaid, 
A braidsword and a white cockade. 
O, he's a ranting, Sfc. 

I'll sell my rokely and my tow, 
My gude gix-y mare and hawket cow. 
That every loyal Buchan lad 
May tak the field wi' his white cockade. 
O, he's a ranting, Sfc. 



THE WIDOW. 

ALLAN RAMSAY. 

The widow can bake, and the widow can brew. 
The widow can shape, and the widow can sew. 
And mony braw things the widow can do ; 

Then have at the widow, my laddie. 
With courage attack her, baith early and late : 
To kiss her and clap her ye maunna be blate : 
Speak well, and do better ; for that's the best 
gate 

To win a young widow, my laddie. 



The widow she's youthfu', and never ae hair 
The waur of the wearing, and has a good skair 
Of every thing lovely ; she's witty and fair. 

And has a rich jointure, my laddie. 
What could ye wish better, your pleasure to 

crown. 
Than a widow, the bonniest toast in the town, 
With, Naething but — draw in your stool and sit 
down, 

And sport with the widow, my laddie. 

Then till her, and kill her with courtesie dead, 
Though stark love and kindness be all you can 

plead ; 
Be heartsome and airy, and hope to succeed^ 

With the bonnie gay widow, my laddie. 
Strike iron while 'tis bet, if ye'd have it to 

wald ; 
For fortune ay favours the active and bauld. 
But ruins the wooer that's thowless and cauldy 

Unfit for the widow, my laddie. 



THE YELLOW-HAIR'D LADDIE. 

OLD VERSES. 

Tune—" The yellow-hair'd Laddie." 

The yellow-hair'd laddie sat down on yon brae. 
Cried, IMilk tlie yowes, lassie, let nane o' them 

gae; 
And aye as she milkit, she merrily sang. 
The yellow-hair'd laddie shall be my gudeman. 
And aye as she milkit, she merrily sang. 
The yellow-hair'd laddie shall be my gude- 
man. 

The weather is cauld, and my cleadin is thin. 
The yowes are new dipt, and they winna bucht 

in; 
They winna bucht in, although I should dee : 
Oh, yellow-haird'd laddie, be kind unto me. 
And aye as she milkit, ffc. 

The gudcwife cries butt the house, Jennie, come 

ben ; 
The cheese is to mak, and the butter's to kirn. 
Though butter, and cheese, and a' should gang 

sour, 
I'll crack and I'll kiss wi' my love ae half hour. 
It's ae lang half hour, and we'll e'en mak it 

three, 
For the yellow-hair'd laddie my gudoHoa 
shall be. • 



« From the Tea-Table Miacellaar, 1714. 



182 



BURNS' WORKS. 



THE YOUNG LAIRD AND EDINBURGH 
KATIE. 



TuiU"" Tartan Screen." 

Now wat ye wha 1 met yestreen, 

Coining down the street, my joe ? 
My mis'tress, in her tartan screen, 

Fu* bonnie, bmw, and sweet, my joe I 
My dear, quoth I, thanks to the nicht 

That never wiss'd a lover ill, 
Sin* ye're out o' your mither's sicht. 

Let's tak* a walk up to the hill.* 

Oh, Katie, wilt thou gang wi' me, 

And leave the dinsonie toun a while ? 
The blossom's sprouting frae the tree, 

And a' creation's gaun to smile. 
The mavis, nichtingale, and lark, 

The bleating lambs and whistling hynd, 
la ilka dale, green shaw, and park, 

Will nourish health, and gla4 your mind. 

Sune as the clear gudeman o* day 

Does bend his mornin' draught o' dew. 
We'll gae to some burn-side and play, 

And gather flouirs to busk your brow. 
We'll pou the daisies on the green, 

The lucken-gowans frae the bog ; 
Between hands, now and then, we'll leaa 

And sport upon the velvet fog. 

There *s, up into a pleasant glen, 

A wee piece frae my father's tower, 
A canny, saft, and flowery den. 

Which circling birks have form'd a bowen 
Whene'er the sun gfrows high and warm. 

We'll to the caller shade remove ; 
There will I lock thee in my arm, 

And love and kiss, and kiss and love. 



MY MOTHER'S AYE GLOWRIN' OWER 

ME; 

IN ANSWER TO THE TOUMG LAIRD AND 
EDINBURGH KATT. 

RAMSAY. 

Tune—" My Mother's aye glowrin' ower me." 

Mr mother's aye glowrin' ower me. 
Though she did the same before me ; 



• It is quite as remarkable as it is true, that the 
mode of courtship among people of the middle ranks 
in Ekiinburgh has undergone a complete change in the 
course of no more than the last thirty years. It used 
to be customary for lovers to walk together for hours, 
both during the day and the evening, in the Meadows, 
or the King's Park, or the fields now occupied by the 
New Town ; practices now only known to artizans and 
•erving-girls. 

The song appeared in the Tea- Table Miscellany, 



I ranna get leave 
To look at my love, 
Or else she'd be like to devour me. 

Right fain wad I tak' your offer. 
Sweet Sir — but I'll tyne ray tocher ; 
Then, Sandy, ye'll fret. 
And wyte your puir Kate, 
Whene'er ye keek in your loom coffer. 

For though my father has plenty 
Of silver, and plenishing dainty, 

Yet he's uneo sweir 

To twine wi' his gear ; 
And sae we had need to be tcnty. 

Tutor my parents wi' caution, 

Be wylie in ilka motion ; 

Brag weel o' your land. 
And, there's my leal hand. 

Win them, I'll be at your devotion. 



WANDERING WILLIE. 

OLD VERSES. 

Tune—" Wandering Willie." 

Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie ' 
Here awa, there awa, baud awa hame ! 

Lang have I sought thee, dear have I bought 
thee ; 
Now I have gotten my Willie again. 

Through the lang muir I have followed my 
Willie ; 
Through the lang muir I have followed him 
hame. 
Whatever betide us, nought shall divide us ; 
Love now rewards all my sorrow and pain. ] 

Here awa, there awa, here awa, Willie ! 

Here awa, there awa, here awa, hame ! 
Come, love, believe me, nothing can grieve me, 

Ilka thing pleases, when Willie's at hame.* 



CAM' YE O'ER FRAE FRANCE. 

Cam' ye o'er frae France, came ye doun by 

Luimon, 
Saw ye Geordie Whelps and his bonny woman. 
War' ye at the place ca'd tha kittle-housie, 
Saw ye Geordie's grace, ridin' on a goosie. 

Geordie he's a man, there is little doubt o't, 
He's done a' he can, wha can do without it ; 
Down there cam' a blade, linkin' like a lordie. 
He wad drive a trade at the loom o' Geordie.f 



• From Herd's Collection, 1776. 
t This plainly alludes to Count Koningsmark aai 
the Queen. 



SONGS. 



isa 



Tho* the clalth were bad, blythely may we nlffer, 
Gin we get a wab, it mak's little differ ; 
We hae tint our piaid, bonnet, belt and swordie, 
Ha's and maillins braid, but we hae a Geordie. 

Hey for Sandy Don, hey for cockolorum. 

Hey for Bobbin' John and his Highland quo- 
rum ; 

Many a sword and lance swings at Highland 
hurdie, 

How they'll skip and dance o'er t'ne bum o' 
Geordie. 



THE HIGHLAND LADDIE. 

ANOTHER SET. 

The lawland lads think they are fine ; 
But O they're vain and idly s^audy I 

How much unlike that giace.'u' mien. 
And manly looks of my highland laddie ? 
O my hoiiny, bunny higliland laddie. 
My handsome, charmhty liighlaud laddie ; 
May heaven still guard, and love reward 
Our lawland lass and her highland laddie. 

If I were free at will to chuse 

To be the wealthiest lawland lady, 

I'd take young Donald without trews, 
With bonnet blue, and belted plaidy. 
O my bonny, Sfc. 

The brawest beau in borrows-town, 
In a' his airs, with art made ready, 

Compar'd to him, he's but a clown ; 
He's finer far iu's tartan plaidy. 
O my bonny, Sfc. 

O'er benty hill with him I'll run, 
And leave my lawland kin and dady ; 

Frae winter's cauld, and summer's sun, 
He'll screen me with his highland plaidy. 
O my bunny, Sfc. 

A painted room, and silken bed. 

May please a lawland laird and lady ; 

But I can kiss, and be as glad. 

Behind a bush in's highland plaidy. 
O my bonny, 8fc. 

Few compliments between us pass, 
I ca' him my dear highland laddie. 

And he ca's me his lawland lass. 
Syne rows me in beneath his plaidy. 
O my bonny, §-c. 

Nae greater joy I'll e'er pretend, 

Than thit his love prove true and steady, 

Like mine to him, which ne'er shall end. 
While heaven preserves my highland laddie. 
my bonny, Sfc. 



JENNY NETTLES. 



Saw ye Jenny Nettles, 

Jenny Nettles, Jenny Nettles, 
Saw ye Jenny Nettles 

Coming frae the market ? 
Bag and baggage on her back, 

Her fee and bountith in her lap ; 
Bag and baggage on her back. 

And a babie in her oxter ? 

I met ayont the kairny, 

Jenny Nettles, Jenny Nettles, 
Singing till her bairny, 

Robin Rattle's bastard ; 
To flee the dool upo' the stool, 

And ilka ane that mocks her. 
She round about seeks Robin out. 

To stap it in his oxter 

Fy, fy ! Robin Rattle, ' 

Robin Rattle, Robin Rattle; 
Fy, fy ! Robin Rattle, 

Use Jenny Nettles kindly : 
Score out the blame, and shun the shame. 

And without mair debate o't, 
Tak hame your wean, make Jenny £un 

The leel and leesome gate o't. 



O MERRY MAY THE MAID BE. 

SIB JOHN CLERK OF PENNTCUICK. 

Tuiu-m" Merry may the Maid be." 

O, MERRT may the maid be 

That marries the miller ! 
For, foul day or fair day, 

He's aye bringing till her. 
H'as aye a penny in his pouch. 

For dinner or for supper ; 
Wi' beef, and pease, and melting cheese, 

An' lumps o' yellow butter. 

Behind the door stands bags o' meal. 

And in the ark is plenty. 
And good hard cakes his mither bakes. 

And mony a sweeter dainty. 
A good fat sow, a sleeky cow. 

Are standing in the byre ; 
Whilst winking puss, wi* mealy mou. 

Is playing round the fire. 

Good signs are these, my mither says. 

And bids me take the miller ; 
A miller's wife's a merry wife, 

And he's aye bringing till her. 
For meal or raaut she'll never want. 

Till wood and water's scanty ; 
As lang's there's cocks and clocldn' henii 

She'U aye hae eggs in plenty. 



184 



BURNS* WORKS, 



THE TAILOR. 

Thk Tailor fell thro* the bed thimbles an' a', 
The Tailor fell thro' the bed thimbles an' a', 
The blankets were thin and the sheets they were 

sma', 
The Tailor fell thro* the bed thimbles an' a*. 

The lassie was sleepy and thought on nae ill ; 
The weather was cauld and the lassie lay still ; 
The ninth part o' manhood may sure hae its 

wiU; 
She kent weel the Tailor could do her nae ill. 

The Tailor grew droosy, and thought in a 

dream, 
How he caulked out the claith, and then felled 

in the seam ; 
A while ayont midnight, before the cocks craw, 
The Tailor fell thro' the bed thimbles an' a". 

The day it has come, and the nicht it has gane. 
Said the bonnie young lassie when sighing 

alane: 
Since men are but scant, it wad gee me nae 

pain. 
To see the bit Tailor oome skippin again. 



AWA, WHIGS, AWA ! 

JACOBITE SONG. 

JVn»— " Awa, Whigs, awa !" 

Our thistles flourish'd fresh and fair, 

And bonny bloom'd our roses, 
But Whigs came, like a frost in June, 
And wither'd a' our posies. 
^wa, Whigs, awa ! 

Awa, Whigs, awa I 
Ye're hut a pack o' traitor loons ; 
Ye' II ne'er do good at a'. 

Our sad decay in church and state 

Surpasses my descriving ; 
The Whigs came o'er us for a curse, 

And we have done wi' thriving. 

Awa, Whigs ! awa, S^c. 

A foreign WWggish loon bought seeds, 

In Scottish yird to cover ; 
But we'll pu' a' his dibbled leeks. 

And pack him to Hanover. 

Awa, Witigsl awa, ^-c. 

Our ancient crown's fa'n i' the dust, 
Deil blind them wi' the stour o't ! 

And write their names in his black beuk, 
Wha' ga'e the Whigs the power o't ! 
Awa, Whigs ! awa, Sfc, 



Grim Vengeance lang has ta'en a nap, 

But we may see him wauken : 
Gude help tlie day, when royal heads 

Are hunted like a maukin ! 

Awa, Whigs f awa, §*c. 

The deil he heard the stour o' tongues, 
And ramping came amang us ; 

But he pitied us, sae cursed wi' Whig8,'~ 
He turn'd and wadna wrang iis. 

Awa, Whigs I awa, Sfc. 

Sae grim he sat amang the reek, 

Thrang bundling brimstone matches ; 
And croon'd, 'mang the beuk-taking Whigs, 
Scraps of auld Calvin's catches. 
Awa, Whigs, awa ! 

Awa, Whigs, awa ! 
Ye'il rin me out o' wun spunks. 
And ne'er do good at a'. 



LOCH-NA-GARR. 



AwAT ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses, 
In you let the minions of luxury rove ; 
Restore me the rocks where the snow-flake re- 
poses. 
If still they are sacred to freedom and love. 
Yet, Caledonia, dear are thy mountains. 
Round their white summits tho' elements war, 
Tho' cataracts foam, 'stead of smooth flowing 

fountains, 
I sigh for the valley of dark Loch-na-garr. 

Shades of the dead ! have I heard your voices 

Rise on the night-roUing breath of the gale, 

Surely the soul of the hero rejoices, 

And rides on the wind, o'er his own Highland 
dale. 

Round Loch-na-garr, while the stormy mist ga- 
thers, 

Winter jjresides in his cold icy car ; 

Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers. 

They dwell 'mid the tempests of dark Loch- 
na-garr. 



THE MERRY MEN, O. 

When I was red, and ripe, and crouse. 
Ripe and crouse, ripe and crouse. 

My father buUt a wee house, a wee house. 
To baud me frae the men, O. 

There came a lad and gae a shout, 
Gae a shout, gae 4 shout. 



SONGS. 



M 



The wa's fell in, and I fell out, 
Amaug the merry men, O. 



I dream sic sweet thingfs in my sleep, 

In my sleep, in my sleep, 
My minny says I winna keep, 

Amang sae mony men, O. 
When plums are ripe, they should be poo'd, 

Should be poo'd, should be poo'd, 
When maids are ripe, they should be woo'd 

At seven years and ten, O. 

My love, I cried it, at the port. 

At the port, at the port. 
The captain bade a guinea for't, 

The colonel he bade ten, O. 
The chaplain he bade siller for't, 

Siller for't, siller for't. 
But the sergeant bade me naething for't. 

Yet he cam farthest ben, O. 



KENMURE'S ON AND AWA, WILLIE. 

Tune—" Kenmure's on and awa." 

0, Kenmure's on and awa, Willie, 

O, Kenmure's on and awa ; 
And Kenmure's lord's the bravest lord 

That ever Galloway saw. 

Succes to Kenmure's band, Willie, 

Success to Kenmure's band ! 
There's no a heart that fears a Whig, 

That rides by Kemnure's hand. 

Here's Kenmure's health in wine, Willie, 
Here's Kenmure's health in wine ! 

There ne'er was a coward o' Kenmure's blude, 
Nor yet o' Gordon's line. 

O, Kenmure's lads are men, Willie, 

O, Kenmure's lads are men ! 
Their hearts and swords are metal true ; 

And that their faes shall ken. 

They'll live or die wi' fame, Willie, 

They'll live or die wi' fame ; 
But sune wi' sound and victorfe 

May Kenmure's lord come hame ! 

Here's him that's far awa, WiUie, 

Here's him that's far awa ; 
And here's the flower that I lo'e best. 

The rose that's like the snaw. 



POLWART ON THE GREEN. 

At Polwart on the green. 
If you'll meet me the morn, 

Where lasses do convene 
To dance about the thoroi 



A kindly welcome you shall meet 
Frae her wha likes to view 

A lover and a lad complete. 
The lad and lover you. 

Let dorty dames say Na, 

As lang as e'er they please. 
Seem caulder than the sna'. 

While inwardly they bleeze ; 
But I will frankly shaw my mind, 

And yield my heart to thee ; 
Be ever to the captive kind, 

That laugs na to be free. 

At Polwart on the green, 

Amang the new-mawn hay. 
With sangs and dancing keen 

We'll pass the heartsome day. 
At night, if beds be o'er thrang laid, 

And thou be twin'd of thine. 
Thou shalt be welcome, my dear lad, 

To take a part of mine. 



HAJIE NEVER CAME HE. 

Saddled, and bridled, and booted rode he, 
A plume in his helmet, a sword at his knee ; 
But toom cam' the saddle, all bluidy to see, 
And hame cam' the steed, but hame never cvn' 
he. 

Down cam' his gray father, sabbin' sae salr, 
Down cam' his auld mither, tearing her hair, 
Down cam' his sweet wife wi* bonnie biunu 

three, 
Ane at her bosom, and twa at her knee. 

There stood the fleet steed all foamin' and hot, 
There shriek'd his sweet wife, and sank on the 

spot. 
There stood his gray father, weeping sae free. 
So hame cam' his steed, but hame never cw\' 

he. 



THE BOB OF DUMBLANE. 

Lassie, lend me your braw hemp heckle. 

And I'll lend you my thripling kame ; 
For fainness, deary, I'll gar ye keckle. 

If ye'll go dance the Bob of Dumblane. 
Haste ye, gang to the ground of your trunkies, 

Busk ye braw, and dinna think shame ; 
Consider in time, if leading of roonkies 

Be better than dancing the Bob of Dumblane. 

Be frank, my lassie, lest I grow fickle. 
And tuke my word and offer again, 

Syne ye may chance to repent it mickle. 
Ye did ni accept the Bob of Dumblane. 
U 



166 



BURNS' WORKS. 



The dinner, the piper, and priest shall be ready, 
And I'm grown dowy with lying my lane ; 

Away then, leave baith minny und (lady. 
And try with me the Bob of Dumblaue. 



LOCHABER NO MORE. 

Tune—" Lochaber no more." 

Fahewell to Lochaber, and farewell my Jean, 
Where heartsome with thee I've mony day been ; 
For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more. 
We'll may be return to Lochaber no more. 
These tears that I shed, they are a' for my dear, 
And no for the dangers attending on weir, 
Tho* bore on rough seas to a far bloody shore, 
May be to return to Lochaber no more. 

Tho* hurricanes rise, and rise ev'ry wind, 
They'll ne'er make a tempest like that in my 

mind. 
Tho* loudest of thunder on louder waves roar, 
That's naething like leaving my love on the shore. 
To leave thee behind me my heart is sair pain'd, 
By ease that's inglorious, no fame can begaia'd. 
And beauty and love's the reward of the brave, 
And I must deserve it before I can crave. 

Then glory, my Jeany, maun plead my excuse. 
Since honour commands me, how can I refuse ? 
Without it I ne'er can have merit for thee. 
And without thy favour I'd better not be. 
I gae then, my lass, to win honour and fame. 
And if I should luck to come gloriously hame, 
I'll bring a heart to thee with love running o'er, 
And then I'll leave thee and Lochaber no more. 



JOCKY SAID TO JEANY. 

JocxT said to Jeany, Jeany, wilt thou do't ? 
N«*er a fit, quo' Jeanv, for my tocher -good, 
For my tocher-good, I winna marry thee. 
E'ens ye like, quo' Jockey, ye may let it be. 

I hae gowd and gear, I hae land enough, 
I hae seven good owsen ganging in a pleugh, 
Ganging in a pleugh, and linking o'er the lee, 
And gin ye winna tak me, I can let ye be. 

I hae a good ha' house, a barn and a byre, 
A stack afore the door, I'll make a rantin fire, 
I'll make a rantin fire, and merry shall we be : 
And gin ye winna tak me, I can let ye be. 

Jeany said to Jocky, Gin ye winna tell, 
Ye shall be the lad, I'll be the lass myscll. 
Ye're a bonny lad, and I'm a lassie free, 
Ye're welcomer to tak me than to let me be. 



THE LOWLANDS OF HOLLAND 

ANOTHER VERSIOK, 

The luve that I hae chosen 

I'll therewith be content; 
The saut sea will be frozen 

Before that I repent ; 
Repent it will I never 

Until the day I die, 
Though the Lowlands of HoUand 

Hae twined my love and me. 

My luve lies in the saut sea, 

And I am on the side ; 
Enough to break a ymin^ thing's hecoi 

Wha lately was a bride — 
Wha lately was a happy bride, 

And pleasure in her ee ; 
But the Lowlands of Holland 

Hae twined my love and me. 

Oh ! Holland is a barren place, 

In it there grows nae grain, 
Nor ony habitation 

Wherein for to remain ; 
But the sugar canes are plenty, 

And the wine draps frae the tree ; 
But the Lowlands of Holland 

Kae twined my love and me. 

My love he built a bonnie ship. 

And sent her to the sea, 
Wi' seven score guid mariners 

To bear her companie. 
Tiiree score to the bottom gaed, 

And three score died at sea; 
And the Lowlands of Holland 

Hae twined my love and me. 



JENNY DANG THE WEAVER 

Jenny lap, and Jenny flang, 

Jenny dang the weaver ; 
The piper played as Jenny sprang, 

An' aye she dang the weaver. 

As I cam in by Fisherrow, 

Musselburgh was near me, 
I threw aflf the mussel-pock. 

And courtit wi' my deerie. 

Had Jenny's apron bidden down 
The kirk wad ne'er hae ken'd it ; 

But new the word 's gane thro* the town, 
The devil canna mend it. 

Jenny lap, and Jenny flang, 

Jenny dang the weaver ; 
The piper played as Jenny sprang, 

And aye she dang the weaver. 



SONGS. 



187 



AS I WENT OUT AE MAY MORNING. 

As I went out ae May morning. 
Ae May morning it happened to be, 

there I saw a very bonnie lasa 
Come linkia' o'er the lea to me. 

And O she was a weel-faud lass, 

Sweet as the flower sae newly sprung ; 

1 said, fair maid, an' ye fancy me. 

When she laughing said, I am too young. 

To be your bride I am too young. 

And far our proud to be your loon ; 
This is the merry month of May, 

But I'll be aulder. Sir, in June. 
The hawthorns flourished fresh and fair. 

And o'er our heads the small birds sing, 
And never a word the lassie said, 

But, gentle Sir, I am too young. 



THE WEE, WEE GERMAN LAIRDIE. 

Wha the deil hae we gotten for a king, 
But a wee, wee German lairdie ? 

And, when we gaed to bring him, 
He was delving in his yardic : 

Sheughing kail, and laying leeks. 

But the hose, abd but the breeks ; 

And up his beggar duds he cleeks — 
This wee, wee German lairdie. 

And he's cltpt down in our gudemau's chair, 

The wee, wee German lairdie ; 
And he's brought fouth o' foreign trash. 

And dibbled them in his yardie. 
He's pu'd the rose o' EngUsh loons, 
And broken the harp o' Irish clowns ; 
But our thistle taps will jag his thumbs — 

This wee, wee German lairdie. 

Come up amang our Highland hills. 

Thou wee, wee German lairdie, 
And see the Stuart's lang-kail thrive 

We dibbled in our yardie : 
And if a stock ye dare to pu', 
Or baud the yoking o' a plough, 
We'll break your sceptre o'er your mou'. 

Thou wee bit German lairdie. 

Our hills are steep, our glens are deep, 

Nae fitting for a yardie ; 
And our Norland thistles winna pu'. 

Thou wee bit German lairdie : 
And we've the trenching blades o' weir, 
Wad prune ye o' your German gear— 



We'll pass ye 'neath the claymore's shear, 
Thuu feckless German lairdie ! 

Auld Scotland, thou'rt ower cauld a hole 

For nursin' siccan vermin ; 
But the very dougs o' England's court 

They birk and howl in German. 
Then keep thy dibble in thy ain hand, 

Thy spade but and thy yardit ; 
For whi the deil hae we gotten for a king, 

But a wee, wee German laiidie ? 



THE FORAY. 

SIR WALTER SCOTT. 

The last of our steers on the board haa bea* 

spread. 
And the last flask of wine in our gobleta is red > 
Up, up, my brave kinsmen ! — belt swords aad 

begone ; 
There are dangers to dare, and there's spoil ie 

won ! 

The eyes that so lately mixed glances with onn^ 
For a space must be dim, as they gaze from the 

towers. 
And strive to distinguish, through tempest and 

gloom, 
The prance of the steeds and the top of th« 

plume. 

The rain is descending, the wind rises loud. 
The muon her red beacon has veiled with a 

cloud — 
'Tis the better, my mates, for the warder'a dull 

eye 
Shall in confidence slumber^ nor dream we art 

nigh. 

Our steeds are impatient — I hear my blythe 
grey ; 

There is life in his hoof-clang and hope ia hii 
neigh ; 

Like the flash of a meteor, the glance of hii 
mane 

Shall marshal your march through the dark- 
ness and rain. 

The draw-bridge has dropped, and the bngle 

has blown ; 
One pledge is to quaff yet— then monnt and 

begone : 
To their honour and peace that shall rert witk 

the slain ! 
To their health and their glee that aee Tcriot 

again ! 



188 



BURNS'S SONGS. 



ADIEU ! A HEART-WARM FOND ADIEU ! 
Tune-'" The Peacock." 

Adieu ! a heart-warm fond adieu ! 

Dear brothers of the mystic tie ! 
Ye favour'd, ye enlighten'd few, 

Companions of ray social joy ! 
Though I to foreign lands must hie, 

Pursuing Fortune's sliddry ba', 
With melting heart, and brimful eye, 

1*11 mind you still, though far awa'. 

Ofi; have I met your social band, 

And spent the cheerful festive night ; 
Oft, hoDOur'd with supreme command. 

Presided o'er the sons of light ; 
And by that hieroglyphic bright. 

Which none but craftsmen ever saw ! 
Strong memory on my heart shall write 

Those happy scenes when far awa ! 

May freedom, harmony, and love, 

ITnite you in the grand design. 
Beneath the Omniscient Eye above, 

The glorious architect divine ! 
That you may keep th' unerring line, 

Still rising by the plummet's law, 
Till order bright completely shine — 

Shall be my prayer when far awa. 

And you, farewell I whose merits claim, 

Justly, that highest badge to wear ! 
Heaven bless your honour'd, noble name, 

To masonry and Scotia dear ! 
A last request permit me here. 

When yearly ye assemble a'. 
One round, I ask it with a tear, 

To him, the bard, that's far awa.* 



AE FOND KISS. 

Ak fond kiss, and then we sever ; 

Ae farewell, alas, for ever ! 

Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, 

War in sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 



• Written as a sort of farewell to the Masonic com- 
panions of his youth, when the poet was OD the point 



Who shall say that fortune grieves him, 
While the star of hope she leaves him ? 
Me, mie cheerfu' twinkle lights me ; 
Dark despair around benights me. 

I'll ne'er blame thy partial fancy, 
Naething could resist my Nancy ; 
But to see her, was to love her ; 
Love but her, and love for ever. 
Had we never loved sae kindly, 
Had we never loved sae blindly ; 
Never met — or never parted, 
We had ne'er been broken-hearted. 

Fare thee well, thou first and fairest ! 
Fare thee well, thou best and dearest ! 
Thine be ilka joy and treasure. 
Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure ! 
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ; 
Ae farewell, alas, for ever ! 
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, 
War in sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 



AFTON WATER. 

Time—" The Vellow-hair'd Laddie." 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green 

braes, 
Flow gently, Fll sing thee a song in thy praise j 
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream ; 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. 

Thou stock-dove, whose echo resounds through 
the glen. 

Ye wild-whistling blackbirds, in yon flowerj 
den, 

Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screAming for- 
bear, 

I charge you, disturb not my slumbering fair. 

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills. 
Far mark'd with the courses of clear-winding 

rills; 
There daily I wander, as mom rises high. 
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye. 

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, 
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow; 
There oft, as mild evening creeps o'er the lea, 

Th« swect-sceotsd birk shades taj Mary aad me. 



SON*GS. 



189 



Tty crystal sheam, Afton, now lovely it glides, 
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides ! 
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, 
As, gath'ring sweet flow'rets, she stems thy 
clear wave ! 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green 

braes ; 
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays ; 
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream ; 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. 



AGAIN REJOICING NATURE SEES. 
Tune—" Jolmnie's Grey Breeks." 

Again rejoicing nature sees 

Her robe assume its vernal hues ; 

Her leafy locks wave in the breeze, 
All freshly steep'd in morning dews. 

In vain to me the cowslips blaw ; 

In vain to me the vi'lets spring ; 
In vain to me, in glen or shaw. 

The mavis and the lintwhite sing. 

The merry ploughboy cheers his team ; 

Wi' joy the tentie seedman stauks ; 
But life to me's a weary dream, 

A dream of ane that never wauks. 

The wanton coot the water skims ; 

Amang the reeds the ducklings cry ; 
The stately swan majestic swims ; 

And every thing is blest but I. 

The shepherd steeks his faulding slaps. 
And o'er the moorland whistles shrill ; 

Wi' wild, unequal, wandering step, 
I meet him on the dewy hill. 

And when the lark, 'tween light and dark. 
Blithe waukens by the daisy's side. 

And mounts and sings on fluttering wings, 
A woe-worn ghaist, I haraeward glide. 

Come, Winter, with thine angry howl, 
And raging bend the naked tree ; 

Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul. 
When nature all is sad like me ! 



A HIGHLAND LAD MY LOVE WAS 
BORN. 

THE " RAUCLE CARUNk's" SONG IN THE 
" JOLLV BEOOARS." 

Tune—" O an ye war dead, guidman !" 

A Highland lad my love was born, 
The Lawland laws he held in scorn j 



But he still was faithful to his can, 
'Sly gallant, braw John Highlandraan ! 

Sing hey, my hraw John Highlandinan ! 

Sing ho, my hraw John Highlandman f 

There's not a' lad in a the land, 

Was match for my hraw John Highlandman! 

^^lth his philabeg and tartan plaid, 
And gude claymore down by his side, 
The ladies' hearts he did trepan, 
]My gallant braw John Highlandman. 
Sing hey, ^c. 

We ranged a' from Tweed to Spey, 
And lived like lords and ladies gay ; 
For a Lawland face he feared none, 
My gallant bt-aw John Highlandmani 
Sing hey, ^c. 

They banished him beyond the sea } 
Bnt, ere the bud was on the tree, 
Adown my cheeks the pearls ran. 
Embracing my btaw John Highlandman. 
Sing hey, §-c. 

But, och ! they catched him at the last, 
And bound him in a dungeon fast j 
My curse upon them every one, 
They've hanged my braw John Highlandman I 
Sing hey, Sfc. 

And now, a widow, I must mourn 
Departed joys that ne'er return. 
No comfort but a hearty can. 
When 1 think on John Highlandman. 
Sing hey, §-c. 



AMANG THE TREES WHERE HUM- 
MING BEES. 

Tune—" The King of France, he rade a Race.* 

Ajiang tlie trees where humming bees 

At buds and flowers were hinging, O ; 
Auld Calcdon drew nut her drone, 

And to her pipe was singing, O ; 
'Twas Pibroch, sang, strathspey, or reels, 

She dirl'd them ufF, fu' clearly, O ; 
When there cam a yell o' foreign squeels, 

That dang her tap.salteerie, O — 

Their capon craws and queer ha ha's, 

They made our lui^s grow eerie, O ; 
The hungry bike did scrape and pike 

'Till we were wae and weary, O— - 
But a royal ghaist wha ance was cas'd 

A prisoner augliteea year awa, 
He fir'd a fiddler in the North 

That dang them tapsalteerie, O. 



ido 



BURMS' WORKS. 



A MAN*S a Man for A' THAT. 
Tun*—" For a' that, and a' that. 

I* there, for honest poverty, 

That hangs his head, and a' that ? 
The coward-slave, we pass him by ; 

We daur be puir for a' that. 
For a' that, and a' that. 

Our toils obscure, arid a* that. 
The rank is but the guinea-stamp— 

The man's the gowd for a' that. 

What though on hamely fare we dine, 

Wear hoddin-grey, and a* that ? 
Cie fools their silks, and knaves their wine ; 

A man's a man for a' that ; 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Their tinsel show, and a' that, 
The honest man, though e'er sae puir, 

Ii king o' men for a' that. 

Tc tee yon birkie, ca'd a lord,, 

Wha struts, and stares, and a* that ; 
Though hundreds worship at his word, 

He's but a cuif for a' that. 
F«r a' that, and a' that. 

His ribbon, star, and a' that, 
The man of independent mind, 

He looks and laughs at a' that. 

A king ean make a belted knight, 

A marquis, duke, and a' that ; 
But an honest man's aboon his micht, 

Oude faith, he maunna fa' that ! 
For a' that, and a' that. 

Their dignities, and a' that. 
The pith o' sense, the pride o' worth, 

Are higher ranks for a' that. 

Then let us pray, that come it may, 

As come it will, for a' that. 
That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, 

May bear the gree, and a' that. 
For a' that, and a' that. 

It's comin' yet for a' that, 
ThiX man to man, the warld o'er, 

Shall brothers be for a' that. 



ANNA. 



Tun*—" Banks of Banna." 

YtaTKXXN I had a pint o' wine, 

A place where body saw na ; 
Ysstreen lay on this breast o' mine 

The raven lucks of Anna. 
The hungry Jew in wilderness, 

Rejoicing ower his nianna, 
Was nacthing to my hinny bliss, 

Upon the lips of Anna. 

Te BMnarehs tak the east and west, 
Fnc JjaAva to Savannah ! 



Qie me within my straining gi'lsp 

The iiieUirtg form of Anna. 
There I'll dt^spise imperial charms. 

An empress or sultana, 
While dyinc; ra[)tures, in her arms, 

I give and take with Anua. 

Awa, thou flaunting god of day ! 

Awa, thou pale Diana ! 
Ilk star gae hide thy twinkling ray, 

When I'm to mei't ray Anna. 
Come, in thy raven plumage, night, 

Sun, moon, and stars, withdrawn a' ; 
And bring au angel pen to write 

My transports with my Anna. * 



ANNIE. 
Tune—" Allan Water." 

I WALKED out with the Museum in my hand, 
and turning up Allan Water, the words appeared 
to me rather unworthy of so fine an air, so 1 sat 
and raved under the shade of an old thorn till I 
wrote one to suit the measure. 

By Allan stream I chanced to rove. 

While Phoebus sank beyond Benledi, 
The w^inds were whisp'ring through the grove, 

The yellow corn was waving ready : 
I listen'd to a lover's sang. 

And thought ou youthful pleasures many; 
And aye the wilil-wnod echoes rang— 

O, dearly do I love thw, Annie ! 

O, happy be the woodbine bower ; 

Nae nightly bogle mak it eerie ; 
Nor ever sorrow stain the hour. 

The place and time I meet my dearie ! 
Her head upon my throbbing breast. 

She, sinking, said, I'm thine for ever ! 
While many a kiss the seal impress'd. 

The saci ed vow, we ne'er should sever. 

The haunt o' Spring's the primrose brae ; 

The Simmer joys the flocks to follow ; 
How cheerie, through her short'ning day. 

Is Autumn in her weeds o." yellow ! 
But can they melt the glowing heart, 

Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure. 
Or through each nerve the rapture dart. 

Like meeting her, our bosom's treasure ? 



• This song. like " HiRhland Mary ," afTords a strong 
proof of the power which iioetry possesses of raising 
and sublimiiip objects. Highland Mary was the dairy, 
maiil of Coil-HcM ; Anna is said to have been some* 
thing meaner. The poet sure was in a fine phrensy. 
rolling when he said, •' I tliiuk thil is the best lore, 
song I ever wrote." 



SONGS. 



idi 



A tCEX) RED ROSE."* 
Tune—" Low down In the Bnune.' 

O, MT Ittve's like a red red r«se, 
That's newly sprung in June ; 

O, tay luve'a like the melodie, 
That's sweetly play'd in tune. 

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, 

Sae deep in luve am I ; 
And I will love thee still, my dear, 

Till a' the seas gang dry. 

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear. 
And the rocks melt wi' the sun ; 

I will love thee still, my dear. 
While the sands o' life shall run. 

And fare thee weel, my only luve. 
And fare thee weel a while ! 

And I will come again, my luve, 
Though it were ten thousand mile. 



A ROSE-BUD BY MY EARLY WALK. 

This song I composed on Miss Jenny Cruik- 
•hank, only child to my worthy friend Mr. 
William Cruikshank of the High-School, Edin- 
burgh. The air is by David Sillar, quondam 
merchant, now schoolmaster, in Irvine : the 
Davie to whom I address my poetical epistle. 

A Eosi-BUD by my early walk, 
Adown a corn-inclosed hawk, 
Sae gently bent its thorny stalk. 
All on a dewy morning. 

Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled, 
Xn a' it« crimson glory spread, 
And drooping rich the dewy head, 
It scents the early morning. 

Within the bush, her covert nest 
A little linnet fondly prest. 
The dew sat chilly on her breast 
Sat early in the morning. 

She soon shall see her tender brood. 
The pride, the pleasure o' the wood, 
Amang the fresh green leaves bedewed, 
Awake the early morning. 

So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair, 
On trembling string or vocal air. 
Shall sweetly pay the tender care 
That teats thy early morning. 

So thou, sweet rose-bud, young and gay, 
Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day, 
And bless the parent's evening ray 
That watched thy early morning. 



A SOUTHLAND JENNY. 



Tais is a popular Ayrshire song, though the 
notes were never taken down before. — It, ai 
well as many of the ballad tunes in this collec- 
tion, was written from Mrs. Burns's voica, 

A Southland Jenny that was right bonny, 
Had for a suitor a Norland Johnnie, 
But he was sicken a bashfu' wooer. 
That he could scarcely speak unto her. 

But blinks o' her beauty, and hopes o' her siller, 
Forced him at last to tell his mind till her ; 
My dear, quo* he, we'll nae langer tarry, > 
Gin ye can lo'e me, let's o'er the moor and marry. 

Come awa then, my Norland laddie, 
Tho' we gang neat, some are mair gaudy ; 
Albeit I hae neither land nor money. 
Come, and I'll ware my beauty on thee. 

Ye lasses o' the South, ye're a' for dressin ; 
Lasses o* the North, mind milkin and threshin ; 
My minnie wad be angry, and sae wad my 

daddie. 
Should I marry ane as dink as a lady. 

I roaun hae a wife that will rise i' the momin, 
Cruddle a' the milk, and keep the house a 

scauldin ; 
Tulzie wi' her neebors, and learn at my miimie, 
A Norland Jocky maun hae a Norland Jenny. 

My father's only dochter, wi' farms and siller 

ready, 
Wad be ill bestowed upon sic a clownish body ; 
A' that I said was to try what was in thee, 
Gae hanie, ye Norland Jockie, and court your 

Norland Jenny ! 



AULD LANG SYNE. 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 

And never brought to mind? 
Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
And auld lang syne ! 

For auld lang^syne, my jo. 

For auld lanr „yne, 
We'll tak a cup o' kindness ytt, 
For avid lang syne I 

And surely ye'Il be your pint itoup ! 

And surely I'll be mine ! 
And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, 

For auld lang syne. 
For auld, ^c. 

We twa hae run about the braes, 
And pou't the gowans fine ; 

But we've wandcr'd mony a weary foot 
Sin auld lang syne. 
For auld, Sfc, 



192 



BURNS' WORKS. 



We twa hae paldl't 1* tie bum, 
Frae morning sun 'till dine ; 
But seas between us braid hae roar'd, 
, Sia auld lang syne. 
For auld, §-c. 

And there's a ban', my trusty fiere, 

And gies a ban' o* thine ! 
And we'll tak a right gude willy-waught 

For auld lang syne ! 
For auld, fyc. 



AULD ROB MORRIS. 

There's auld Rob Morris, that wins in yon 

glen, 
He's the king o' gude fellows, and wale of auld 

men ; 
He has gowd in bis coffers ; he has ousen and 

kine, 
And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine. 

Sbe|s fresh in the morning, the fairest in IMay ; 
She's sweet as the evening among the new hay ; 
As blythe, and as artless, as the lamb on the 

lea ; 
And dear to my heart as the light to my ee. 

But oh ! she's an heiress : auld Robin's a laird, 
And my daddie has nought but a cothouse and 

yard. 
A wooer like me mauna hope to come speed. 
The wounds I must hide that will soon be my 

dead. 

The day comes to me, but delight brings me 

nane ; 
The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane ; 
I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist, 
And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my 

breast ! 

Oh had she but been of a lower degiee, 

I then might hae hop'a she wad smil'd upon 

me; 
O how past deserving had then been my bless, 
As now my distraction, no words can express. 



Blest wi' content, and milk, and meal«>a 
O leeze me on my spinning-wheel ! 

On ilka hand the burnies trot, 
And meet below my theekit cot ; 
The scented birk and hawthorn white 
Across the pool their arms unite, 
Alike to screen the birdie's nest, 
And little fishes' caller rest ; 
The sun bbnks kindly in the biel, 
Where blythe I turn my spinning-wheel. 

On lofty aiks the cushats wail, 
And echo cons the doolfii' tale ; 
The lintwhites in the hazel braes, 
Delighted, rival ither's lays : 
The craik amang the clover hay. 
The paitrick whirring ower the lea, 
The swallow jinkin' round my shiel ; 
Amuse me at my spinning-wheel. 

Wi' sma' to sell, and less to buy, 
Aboon distress, below envy, 
O wha wad leave this humble state, 
For a' the pride of a' the great ? 
Amid their flaring idle toys. 
Amid their cumbrous, dinsome joys. 
Can they the peace and pleasure feel 
Of Bessy at her spinning-wheel ? 



BESSY AND HER SPINNING WHEEL. 

run*—" The bottom of the Punch Bowl." 

O LEEZE me on my spinning-wheel ! 
O leeze me on my rock and reel ! 
Frae tap to tae that deeds me bien. 
And haps me feil * and warm at e'en ! 
I'll set me doun, and sing, and spin, 
While laigh descends the simmer sun ; 

• Cpvers me with a stuff agreeabk to the «kin. 



BEWARE O' BONNIE ANN. 

I COMPOSED this song out of compliment to 
Miss Ann Masterton, the daughter of my friend, 
Allan Masterton, the author of the air of Strath- 
allan's Lament, and two or three others in this 
work. 

Ye gallants bright I red ye right, 

Beware o' bonnie Ann ; 
Her comely face sao fu' o' grace. 

Your heart she will trepan. 
Her een sae bright, like stars by night, 

Her skin is like the swan ; 
Sae jimply lac'd her genty waist. 

That sweetly ye might span. 

Youth, grace, and love, attendant move. 

And pleasure leads the van : 
In a' their charms, and conquering arms, 

I'ney wait on bonnie Ann. 
The captive bands may chain the hands, 

But love enslaves the man ; 
Ye gallants braw, I red you a'. 

Beware o* bonnie Ann. 



SONGS. 



19S 



BEHOLD THE HOUR, THE BOAT 
ARRIVE. 

Tune-^" Oran Gaoil." 

Behold the hour, the boat arrive ; 

Thou goest, thou darling of my heart ! 
Sever'd from thee, can I survive ? 

But fate has will'd, and we must part. 
I'll often greet this surging swell, 

Yon distant isle wUl often hail : 
" E'en here I took my last farewell, 

There latest mark'd her vanish'd sail.'*. 

Along the solitary shore, 

While flitting sea-fowl round me cry, 
Across the rolling, dashing roar, 

I'll westward turn my wistful eye : 
Happy, thou Indian grove, I'll say. 

Where now my Nancy's path may be ! 
While through thy sweets she loves to stray. 

Oh, tell me, does she muse on me ? 



BEYOND THEE, DEARIE. 

It is remarkable of this air, that it is the con- 
fine of that country where the greatest part of 
our Lowland music, (so far as from the title. 
Words, &c. we can localize it), has been com- 
posed. From Craigie-burn, near Aloffat, until 
one reaches the West Highlands, we have scarce- 
ly one slow air of any antiquity. 

The song was composed on a passion which 
a Mr. Gillespie, a particular friend of mine, had 
for a Miss Lorimer, afterwards a Mi-s. AVhelp- 
dale. — The young lady was born at Craigie- 
burn wood. — The chorus is part of an old fool- 
ish ballad. — 

Seyond thee, dearie, beyond thee, dearie, 

And O to be lying beyond thee, 
O sweetly, soundly, tceel may he sleep, 

That's laid in the bed beyond thee. 



CRAIGIE-BURN WOOD. 

Sweet closes the evening on Craigie-burn wood, 

And blythely awakens the morrow ; 
But the pride of the spring in the Craigie-burn 
wood, 
Can yield me to nothing but sorrow. 
Beyond thee, ^c. 

I see the spreading leaves and flowers, 

I hear the wild birds singing ; 
But pleasure they hae nane for me, 

While care my heart is wringing. 
JBeyond thee, Sfc. 

canna tell, I maun na tell, 
I dare na for your anger ; 



But secret love will break mjr hearty 
If I conceal it langer. 

JBeyond, thee, J-c. 

I see thee gracefu', straight and tall,, 
I see thee sweet and bonnie. 

But oh, what will my torments be, 
If thou refuse thy Johnie ! 
Seyond thee, S^c. 

To see thee in anither's arms, 
In love to lie and languish, 

'Twad be my dead, that will be leeDt 

IMy heart wad burst wi* anguish. 

JBeyond thee, §"c. 

But Jeanie, say thou wilt be mine, 
Say, thou lo'es nane before me ; 

And a' my days o* life to come, 
I'll gratefully adore thee. 
JBeyond thee, §fc. 



BLYTHE HAE I BEEN ON YON HILI, 
Tune—" Liggeram coBh." 

Bltthe hae I been on yon hill, 

As the lambs before me ; 
Careless ilka thought and free, 

As the breeze flew o'er me : 
Now nae langer sport and play, 

Mirth or sang can please me : 
Lesley is sae fair and coy, 

Care and anguish seize me. 

Heavy, heavy is the task. 

Hopeless love declaring : 
Trembling, I dow nocht but glowr. 

Sighing, dumb, despairing! 
H she winna case the thraws, 

In my bosom swelling ; 
Underneath the grass-green sod. 

Soon raaun be my dwelling. 



BLYTHE WAS SHE. 

JBlythe, blythe and merry teas she, 
Ulythe was she but and ben ; 

Blythe by the hanks of JErn, 
And blythe in Glenturit glen. 

By Oughtertyre grows the aik, 

On Yarrow banks, the birken shaw ; 

But Phemie was a bonnnier lass 
Than biaes o' Yarrow ever saw. 
Blythe, ^c. 

Her looks were like a flow'r in May, 
Her smile was like a *immcr morn j 



45 



mi 

She tripped bjf tfce bahla oi Erii, 
As light's a bird upon a thorn. 
lili/the, SfCt 

Her bonny face it was as meek 

As oiiy laiiih upon a Ife ; 
The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet 

As was the blink o' Phemie's e'e. 
Blythe, §-c. 

The Highland bill's I've wander'd wide, 
And o'er the Lowland« I hae been ; 

But Phemie was the blythest lass 
Tbat ever trod the dewy green. 
Blythe, §fc. 



BURN^S' WORK';. 



BONNIE WEE THmG, 
Turn—" Bonnie Wee Thing." 

BoKNiE wee thing, cannie wee thing, 
Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine, 

I wad wear thee in iny bosom, 
Lest my jewel I should tine. 

"Wistfully I look and languish 
In that bonnie face o' thine ; 

And my heart it stounds wi' anguish, 
Lest my wee thing be na mine. 

Wit, and grace, and love, and beauty. 

In ae constellation shine ; 
To adore thee is my duty. 

Goddess o' this soul o' mine ! 

Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing, 
Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine, 

I wad wear thee in my bosom, 
Lest my jewel I should tine. 



BONNIE LESLEY. 



BONNIE BELL. 

Thk smiling Spring comes in rejoicing. 

And surly Winter grimly flies ; 
Now crystal clear are the falling waters, 

And bonnie blue are the sunny skies ; 
Fresh o'er the mountains breaks forth the mor- 
ning, 

The ev'ning gilds the ocean's swell ; 
All creatures joy in the sun's returning. 

And I rejoice in my bonnie Bell. 

The flow'ry Spring leads sunny Summer, 

And yellow Autumn presses near. 
Then in his turn conies gloomy Winter, 

'Till smiling Spring again appear. 
Thus seasons dancing, life advancing. 

Old Time and Nature their changes tell, 
But never ranging, still unchanging 

I adore my bonnie Bell. 



Tune-'" The Collier's bonnie Lassie. 

O, SAW ye bonnie Lesley, 

As she gaed o'er the Border ? 
She's gane, like Alexander, 

To spread her conquests farther. 
To see her is to love her. 

And love but her for ever ; 
For nature made her what she is, 

And never made anither ! 

Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, 

Thy subjects we before thee : 
Thou art divine, fair Lesley ; 

The hearts o' men adore thee. 
The Deil he couldna scaith thee, 

Or aught that wad belang thee ; 
He'd look into thy bonnie face, 

And say, I canna wrang thee ! 

The Powers aboon will tent thee, 

Misfortune shanna steer thee ; 
Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely, 

That ill they'll ne'er let near thee. 
Return again, fair Lesley, 

Return to Caledonia ! 
That we may brag we hae a lass 

There's nane again sae bonnie.* 



BONNIE JEAN. 
Tune—" Bonnie Jean." 

There was a lass, and she was fair, 
At kirk and market to be seen ; 

When a' the fairest maids were met, 
The fairest maid was bonnie Jean. 

And aye she wrought her mammie's wark. 
And aye she sang sae merrilie ; 

The blythest bird upon the bush 
Had ne'er a lighti-r heart than she. 

But hawks will rob the tender joys 
That bless the little lintwhite's nest ; 

And frost will blight the fairest flowers. 
And love will break the soundest rest. 

Young Robie was the brawest lad, 
The flower and pride of a' the glen ; 

And he had owsen, sheep, and kye, 
And wanton naigies nine or ten. 

He gaed wi' Jeanie to the trj'ste, 
He danced wi' .leanie on the down ; 

And lang ere witless Jeanie wist, 

Her heart was tint, her peace was stown. 



• Written in honour of Miss Lesley Baillie of Ayr. 
sliire, (now Mrs. Cum-nini; of Logic), when on fier 
way to England. thioii<'h Dum&ies. 



SONGS. 



\U 



As m the bosom o* tte streaM 

The moonbeam dwells at dewy e eh, 

So trembling, pure, was tender love, 
Within the breast o' bonnie Jean. 

And now she works her mammie's wark, 
And ave she sighs wi' grief and pain ; 

Yet wistna what her ail might be, 
Or what wad make her weel again. 

But didna Jeanie's heart loup light. 
And didna joy blink in her ee, 

As Robie tauld a tale o' love, 
Ae e'ening, on the lily lea ? 

The sun was sinking in the west, 
The birds sang sweet in ilka grove ; 

His cheek to hers he fondly prest, 
And whisper'd thus his tale of love : 

O Jeanie fair, I lo'e thee dear ; 

O canst thou think to fancy me ? 
Or wilt thou leave thy mammie's cot, 

And learn to tent the farms wi' me ?_ 

At bam nnr byre thou shalt na drudge, 
Or naethiug else to trouble thee ; 

But stray amang the heather-bells, 
And tent the waving corn wi' me. 

Now what could artless Jeanie do ? 

She had nae will to say him na : 
At length she blush 'd a sweet consent, 

And love was ave between them twa. 



HEY TUTTIE TAITTDE. 

1 have met the tradition universally over 
Scotland, and particularly about Stirling, in 
the neighbourhood of the scene, that this air 
Was Robert Bruce's march at the Battle of Ban- 
Bockburo. 

BRUCE'S ADDRESS 

TO HIS TROOPS BEFORE THS BATTLE OF 
BAKNOCKBURN. 

Tunt—" Hey tuttie taittie." 

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled ! 
Scots, wham Bruce has aiten led ! 
Welcome to your gory bed. 
Or to victorie ! 

Now's the day, and now's the hour : 
See the front of battle lour : 
See approach proud Edward's power- 
Chains and slaverie ! 

Wha will be a traitor knave ? 
Wha can fill a coward's grave ? 
Wha sae base as be a slave ? 
Let him turn and flee ! 



Wha, for Scfttland's king and la«. 
Freedom's sword will strongly draw, 
Freeman stand, or freeman fa', 
Let him foUow me ! 

Bv oppression's woes and pains. 
By your sons in servile chains, 
We will drain our dearest veins, 
But they shall be free. 

Lay the proud usurpers low, 
Tyrants fall in every foe, 
Liberty's in every blow. 
Let us do, or die ! 



CA' THE YOWES TO THE KN0WE9. 

Ca' the yowes to the knowes, 
Ca' them where the heather grows, 
Ca' them where the burnie rowes. 
My bonnie dearie. 

Hark, the mavis' evening sang, 
Sounding Cluden's woods amang ; 
Then a-faulding let us gang. 
My bouuie dearie. 

We'll gang doun by Cluden side. 
Through the hazels spreading wide 
O'er the waves that sv^'ectly glide, 
iMy bonnie dearie. 

Yonder Cluden's silent towers. 
Where, at moonshine midnight hours, 
O'er the dewy budding flowers 

The fairies dance sae cheerie. 

Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear ; 
Thou'rt to love and heaven sae dear, 
Nocht of ill may come thee near. 
My bonnie dearie. 

Fair and lovely as thou art, 
Thou hast stoun my very heart ; 
I can die — but canna part. 
My bonnie dearie. 



CANST THOU LEAVE ME THUS, MY 
KATY? 

Tune—" Roy's wife." 

Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? 
Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? 
Well thou knowest my aching heart, 
And canst thou leave me thus for pity ? 

Is this thy plighted fond regard, 

Thus cruelly to part, my Katy ? 
Is this thy faithful swain's reward 

An aching, broken teart, my Katy ? 



m 



BURNS* WORKS. 



Farewell ! atu] ne'er siicli soitows tear 
That fickle heart of thine, my Katy ! 

Thou may'st find thosu will love thee dear — 
But not a love like mine, my Katy. 



REPLY TO THE ABOVE. 

BT A YOUNG ENGLISH GENTLEWOMAN. FOUND 
AMONGST BURNS'S MANUSCRIPTS AFTER HIS 
DECEASE. 

Stay, my Willie — yet believe me, 
Stay, my Willie — yet believe me ; 
Tweel, thou know'st na every pang 
Wad wring my bosom shouldst thou leave me, 

Tell me that thou yet art true. 

And a' my wrongs shall be forgiven ; 

And when this heart proves false to thee. 
Yon sun shall cease its course in heaven. 

But to think I was betray'd. 

That falsehood e'er our loves should sunder ! 
To take the floweret to my breast. 

And find the guilefu' serpent imder ! 

Cou/d T hope thou'dst ne'er deceive me. 
Celestial pleasures, might I choose 'em, 

I'd slight, nor seek in other spheres 
That heaven I'd find within thy bosom. 



He wanders as free as tlie wind on kls motlntaiflf , 
Save love's willing fetters— the chains of hii 

Jean. • 



CALEDONIA. 

TiiEiR groves O sweet myrtles let foreign lands 
reckou, 
Where bright-beaming summers exalt the per- 
fume ; 
Far dearer to me yon loije glen o' green breckan. 
With the burn stealing under the lang yellow 
broom. 

Far dearer to me yon humble broom bowers, 
Where the blue bell and gowan lurk lowly 
unseen ; 

For there, lightly tripping amang the wild flowers, 
A listeiiiug the linnet, aft wanders my Jean. 

Though rich is the breeze, in their gay sunny 
vallies. 
And cauld Caledonia's blast on the wave ; 
Their sweet-scented woodlands, that skirt the 
proud palace. 
What are they ? — the haunt o' the tyrant and 
slave ! 

The slave's spicy forests and gold-bubbliug 
fountains. 
The brave Caledonian views wi' disdain ; 



CHLOE. 

ALTERED FROM AN OLD ENGLISH SOKO 

It was the charming month of May, 
Wlien all the flowers were fresh and gay, 
One morning by the break of day. 
The youthful, charming Chloe ; 

From peaceful slumber she arose, 
Gilt on her mantle and her hose. 
And o'er the flowery mead she goes, 
The youthful, charming Chloe. 
Lovely was she by the dawn. 

Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe, 
Tripping o'er the pearly lawn. 
The youthful, charming Chloe. 

The feather'd people you might see 
Perch'd all around on every tree, 



• Burns wrote this song In compliment to Mrs. Dums 
during their honeymoon. The air, with many othen 
of equal beauty, was the composition of a Mr. Mar- 
shall, who, in liurns's time, was butler to the Duke 
of Gordon. 

This beautiful soufi— bcintiful for both its aroatorr 
and Its patriotic sentunent— seems to liave been com- 
jioscd by Burns during the period when he was court- 
mg the lady wlio afterwards became liis wife. The 
present Rcneration is much ii.teresteil in this lady, and 
deservedly; .as, in addition to her poetical history, 
which is an extremely interesting one, she is a person- 
age of the greatest iirivate worth, and in every respect 
deserving to be esieemed as th<> widow of Scotland's 
best and most endeared bard. The following anecdote 
will ))erliaps be held as testifying, in no inconsiderable 
det;rec, to a qu.ility Vv-hieh she riiay not hitherto have 
b'.-eii siiiip'ised-io possess — her wit. 

II isgeneially ksimvii, ihat Mn. linrns has, ever since 
her liusband's deaih, o, cur.iL'd oxaeilv the same house 
in Dumtries, whieh she inhabited before that event 
and tliat it is eusloinarv for .-Irauyers, who happen to 
p.ass through or visit the town, to pay their resiiects to 
her, with or without letters of introduction, preciselv 
as they do to the chinehvani, the bridor, the liarliour 
or.iny other public object of curiosity about the place' 
A gay young Knglijli gentleman ont (l.iy visited Mrs 
Hums, and after he had seen all that she had to show 
—the bedrnom in ^hiih the poet <lie(l, his original nor 
trait by N.xsmytli, his familv-bible. with the names and 
birlhdaysof himself, his wiiv, and children, written on 
a blank-leaf by his own ha'ul, and sonieolher little 
triiles of the same nature— lie proceeded to intrcat that 
she would have the kindness I,) present him with some 
rehc of the poet, wliicli he if.i.;ht carry away with him 
as a wonder, to show m his own country. " Indeed 
Sir," said Mrs. llurns, " 1 have given awiiv so many re- 
lics of Mr. Burns, that, to tell ve the truth, I have not 
one left, — " Oh, you must surely have Bomethinc " 
said the iiersevermg .Saxon ; "any thing will do— any 
little scrap of his handwriting—the least thing you 
please. All I want HUist a relic of the jMrt ; ami any 
thing, you know, will do for a relic." Some further 
altercation took pl.iee, the ladv reasserting that she had 
no rehc to give, and he as lepeatedlv reiunviiig liis re- 
quest. At length, fairly tired out with the man's iin 
portimiUes, Mrs. Burns said to him, with a smile 
" Deed, Sir, unless ye tak ?ityseU. then, I dinna see 
how you are to get what you want : for, rcallv, Vnt the 
only relic o' him that I ken o'." 'flje i)etitioner at once 
withdrew his request. 



aoti^Gti, 



iw 



In aoteii of swecte>t. uiuluJy 

They hail the chacming Chloc ; 

'Till, painting gay the eastern skies, 
The glorious sun began to rise, 
Outrivall'd by the radiant eyes 
Of youthful, charming Chloe. 
Lovely was she, Sfc. 



CHLORIS. 
Tune—" My Lodging is on the c:oId Ground." 

My Chlori.s, mark how green tlie groves, 

The primrose banks how fair ; 
The balmy gales awakt the lloweis. 

And wave thy flaxen hair. 

The lav'rock shuns the palace gay, 

And o'er the cottage sings ; 
For nature smiles as sweet, I ween, 

To shepherds as to kings. 

Let minstrels sweep the skiifu' string 

In lordly lechtit ha' ; 
The shepherd stops his simple reed, 

BIythe, in the birken sliaw. 

The princely revel may survey 

Our rustic dance wi' scorn ; 
But are their hearts as light as ours, 

Beneath the milk-white thorn ? 

The shepherd, in the flow'ry glen, 

In shepherd's phra^> will woo; 
The courtier tells a fairer tale, 

But is his heart as true ? 

These wild-wood flowers I've pu'd, to deck 

That spotless breast of thine ; 
The courtier's gems may witness love, 

But 'tis na love like mine. 



CLARINDA.* 

Clarinda, mistre3s of my soul, 
The measur'd time is run ! 

The wretch beneath the dreary pole, 
So marks his latest 9un. 

To what dark cave of frozen night 

Shall poor Sylvander hie ; 
Depriv'd of thee, his life and light, 

The sun of all his joy. 

"We part, — but by these precitnu drops. 

That fill thy lovely eyes ! 
No other light shall guide my steps, 

Till thy bright beams arise. 



She, the fair sua of all her tex, 
Has blest my glorious day : 

And shall a glimmering planet fix 
My worship to ita ray ? 



CONTENTIT WI* LITTLE. 

Tunt-f' Lumps of Puddin." 

CoNTENTiT wi' little, and cantie wi' mair, 
Whene'er I forgather wi' sorrow and care, 
I gie them a skelp, as they're creepin' alang, 
Wi' a cogue o' gude swats and an auld Scottish 



I whiles claw the elbowro' troublesome thooht ; 
But man is a sodger, and life is a faucht : 
My mirth and gude humour are coin in my pouch, 
And my freedom's my lairdship nae monarch 
(laur touch. 

A towmond o* trouble, should that be my & , 
A nicht o' gude fellowship sowthers it a' :" 
When at the blythe end o' our journey at last, 
Wha the deil ever thinks o' the road he has past ? 

Blind chance, let her snapper and stoite on her 

way ; 
Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let the jaud gae ; 
Come ease or come travail, come pleasure or pain. 
My warst word is — Welcome, and welcome, a- 

sain ! 



.• The widow alluded to ia the Life, 



COME, LET ME TAKE THEE TO MT 
BREAST. 

Tune—" Cauld Kail in Aberdeen." 

CojJE, let me take thee to my breast, 

And pledge wo ne'er shall sunder ; 
And I shall spurn, as vilest dust, 

The warld's wealth and grandeur : 
And do I hear my Jeanie own, 

That equal transports move her ? 
I ask for dearest life alone 

That I may live to love her. 

Thus in my arms, wi' a' thy charms, 

I clasp my countless treasure ; 
I'll seek nae mair o' heaven to share. 

Than sic a moment's pleasure : 
And, by thy een sae bonnie blue, 

I swear I'm thine for ever ! 
And on thy lips I seal my voxr, 

Aod break it shall I never. 



198^ 



BURNS* WORKS. 



COUNTRY LASSIE. 



Ik sinomer when the hay was niawn. 

And corn wav'd green in ilka field, 
"While claver blooms white o'er the lea, 

And roses blaw in ilka bield ; 
Blythe Bessie in the milking shiel. 

Says, I'll be wed come o't what will ; 
Out spake a dame in wrinkled eild, 

O' gude advisement comes nae ill. 

Its ye hae wooers mony a ane, 

And, lassie, ye' re but young, ye ken ; 
Then wait a wee, and cannie wale, 

A routhie butt, a routhie ben : 
There's Johnie o' the Buskie-glen, 

Fu' is his bam, fu' is his byre ; 
Tak this frae me, my bonnie hen. 

It's plenty beets the luver's fire. 

For Johnie o' the Buskie-glen, 

I dinna care a single flie ; 
He lo'es sae weel his craps and kye. 

He has nae luve to spare for me : 
But blythe's the blink o' Robie's e'e. 

And weel I wat he lo'es me dear : 
Ae blink o' him I wad na gie 

For Buskie-glen and a' his gear. 

O thoughtless lassie, life's a faugh t. 

The canniest gate, the strife is sair } 
But aye fu' han't is fechtin' best, 

A hungry care's an unco care : 
But some will spend, and sonic will spare. 

And wilfu' folk maun hae their will ; 
Syne as ye brew, my maiden fair. 

Keep mind that ye maun drink the yill. 

O gear will buy me rigs o' land, 

And gear will buy me sheep and kye ; 
But the tender heart o' leesoiiie luve, 

The gowd and siller canua buy : 
"We may be poor, Robie and I, 

Light is the burden luve lays on ; 
Content and love brings peace and joy, 

,What mair hae queens upon a throue ? 



equal to their wU and Jtumour, they would 
merit a place in any collection. — The first (tania 



Being pursued by a dragoon. 
Within my bed he was laid down ; 
And well I wat he was worth his room, 
For he was my daintie Davie. 



DAINTY DAVIE. 

TunC'—" Dainty Davie." 

Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers. 
To deck her gay green birken bowers. 
And now come in my happy hours. 
To wander wi' my Davie. 

Meet me on the warlock knowe. 

Dainty Davie, dainty Davie ; 
There ril upend the day wV you. 
My ain dear dainty Davie. ^ 

The crystal waters round us fa'. 
The merry birds are lovers a', 
The scented breezes round us blaw, 
A-wandering wi' my Davie. 
Meet me on, Sfc. 

When purple morning starts the hare. 
To sttal upon her early fare. 
Then through the dews I will repair. 
To meet my faithfu' Davie. 
Meet me on, §"c. 

When day, expiring in the west. 
The curtain draws o' Nature's rest, 
I'll flee to his arms I lo'e best, 
And that's my dainty Davie. 
Meet me on, Ifc. 



DAINTIE DAVIE. 

This song, tradition says, and the coniposl- 1 
tion itself confirms it, was composed on the Rev. 
David Williamson's gettini; the daughter of 
Lady Cherrytrees with child, while a party of 
dragoons were searching her house to apprehend 
him for being an adherent to the solemn league 

and covenant The pious woman had put a 

lady's night-cap on him, and had laid him a-bed 
with her own daughter, and passed him to the 
soldiery as a lady, her daughter's bed-fellow. 

A mutilated stanza or two are to be found in 

Herd's collection, but the original song consists 
of fiv« or six stanzas, and were their delicacy 



DELUDED SWAIN, THE PLEASURE, 

Tune—" The Colliei's Bonnie Lassie." 

Deluded swain, the pleasure 

The fickle fair can give thee 
Is but a fairy treasure — 

Thy hopes will soon deceive thee. 

The billows on the ocean, 
1 The breezes idly roaming. 
The clouds' uncertain motion. 
They are but types of woman. 

O ! art thou not ashamed 

To doat upon a feature ? 
K man thou wouVist be named, 

Despise the silly creature. 

Go, find an honest fellow ; 

Good claret set before thee : 
Hold on till thou art mellow ; 

And then to bed in glory. 



SONGS. 



199 



DOES HAUGHTY GAUL. 

Tunc — " Push about the Jorum." 
AprU, 1795. 

DoKs liauglity Gaul invasion threat? 

Then let the loons beware,. Sir, 
There's wooden walls upon our seas, 

And volunteers ou shore, Sir. 
Tile Nith shall run to Corsincon,* 

And Criflel sink iu Solway,f 
Ere wo permit a foreign foe 

On British ground to rally ! 
Fall de rail, ^-c. 

O K:t us not, liivc snarling tykes, 

In wraB!,'liug be divided ; 
'Till slap come iu an unco loon 

.\nd wi' a rung decide it. 
Be Britain still to Britain true, 

Ainang oursels united ; 
For never but by British hands 

Maun British wrangs be righted. 
Fall de rail, ^-c. 

The kettle o' the kirk and state, 

Perhaps a clout may fail in't ; 
But deil J foreign tinkler looii 

Shall ever ca' a nail in't. 
Our fatliers' bluid the kettle bought, 

And wha wad dure to spoil it ; 
by iieaveu the sacrilegious dog 

Shalt fuel be to boil it. 

FaU de rail, &:c. 

The wretch that wad a tyrant own. 

And the wretch his true-born brother. 
Who would set the mob aboon the throne. 

May they be damned together ! 
Who will not sing " God save the king," 

Shall hang as high's the steeple ; 
But, while we sing " God save the king,'' 

We'll ne'er forget the people. 
Fall de rail, ^c. 



DOWN THE BURN DAVIE. 

VERSE ADDED BY BURNS TO THE OLD SONG. 

As down the burn they took their way. 

And through the flowery dale. 
His cheek to hers he aft did lay. 

And love was aye the tale. 
With — IMary when shall we return. 

Such pleasure to renew ? 
Quoth ]\Iary, love, I like the burn, 

And aye will follow you. 



DUNCAN GRAY. 

Dr. Blacklock informed me that he had 
often heard the tradition that this air was com-, 
posed by a carman in Glasgow. 

Duncan Gray cam here to woo, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
On blythc yule night when we were fou. 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
Maggie coost her Jiead fu' high, 
Look'd askleut and unco skeigh ; 
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh ; 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 

Duncan fleech'd and Duncan pray'd : 

Ha, ha, §*c. ' 

Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig,* 
Ha, ha, Sfc. 

Duncan sigh'd baith out and in, 

Grat his e'en baith bleert and blin, 

Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn ; 
Ha, ha, §"c. 

Time and chance are but a tide, 

Ha, ha, Sfc. 
Slighted love is sair to bidej 

Ha, ha, Sfc. 
Shall I, like a fool, quo' he, ; 

For a haughty hizzie die ; 
She may gae to — France for me ! 

Ha, ha, §"c. 

How it comes let doctors tell. 

Ha, ha, §-c. 
Meg grew sick — as he grew heal, 

Ha^ha, Sfc. 
Something in her bosom wrings, 
For relief a sigh she brings ; 
And O, her een, they spak sic things ! 

Ha, ha, Ifc. 

Duncan was a lad o' grace. 

Ha, ha, Sfc. ' 
Maggie's was a piteous case, 

Ha, ha, 8fc. 
Duncan could na be her death, 
Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath ; 
Now they're crouse and canty baith, 

Ha, ha, the ivooing o't. 



A high hill at the source of the ?Jith. " 
t A well-known mountain at the mouth of the same 
liver. 



EVAN BANKS. 

Slow spreads the gloom my soul de«resj 
The sun from India's shore retires ; 
To Evan banks, with temp'r.ife ray. 
Home of my youth, it leads the day. 
Oh ! banks to me for ever dear ! 
Oil ! stream whose murmurs still I hear ! 
All/all luy hopes of bliss reside. 
Where Evan mingles with the Clyde. 



• A well-known lock in the frith of Clyrle. 



500 



And she, iu simple beauty JiL-^t, 
"Whose image lives withiu my breast ; 
Who trembling heard my piercing sigh, 
And long puisu'J me with her eye ! 
Does she, with heart unchang'd as mine, 
)ft in the vocal bowers recline ? 
Or where yon grot o'erhangs the tide. 
Muse while the Evan seeks the Clyde. 

Ye lofty banks that Evan bound ! 
Ye lavish woods that wave around. 
And o'er the stream your shadows throw. 
Which sweetly wiuds so far below ; 
What secret charm to mem'ry brings. 
All that ou Evan's border springs ? 
Sweet banks ! ye bloom by Mary's side : 
Blest stream, she views thee haste to Clyde. 

Can all the wealth of India's coast 

Atone for years iii absence loit ? 

Return, ye moments of delight, 

With richer treasures bless my sight ! 

Swift fi-om this desert let me part, 

And fly to meet a kindred heart ! 

Nor more may aught my step^ divide 

From that dear stream which flows to Clyde. 



BQRN^ WORKS. 

FAIREST MAID ON DEVON BANKS. 



FAIR ELIZA. 



A GAELIC AIR. 



Turn again, thou fair Eliza, 

Ae kind blink before we part, 
Rew on thy despairing lover ! 

Canst thou break his faithfu* heart ! 
Turn again, thou fair Eliza ; 

If to love thy heart denies. 
For pity hide the cruel sentence . 

Under friendship's kind disguise ! 

Thee, dear maid, hae I offended ? 

The offence is loving thee : 
Canst tliou wreck his peace for ever, 

Wha for thine wad gladly die ! 
While the life beats in my bosom, 

Thou shalt mix in ilka throe : 
Turn again, thou lovely maiden, 

Ae sweet smile on me bestow. 

Not the bee upon the blossom, 

la the pride o' sinny noon ; 
Not the little sporting fairy, 

All beneath the simmer moon ; 
Not the poet in the moment 

Fancy lightens on his ee. 
Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture 

That thy presence gks to me. 



Tunc—" RothJemutcUe." 

Fairest maid on JDevon banks, 
Crystal Devon, winding Devon, 

Wilt thou lay that frown aside, 
And smile as thou wert wont to do. 

Full well thou knowest I love thee dear, 
Couldst thou to malice lend an ear ! 
O did not love exclaim, " Forbear ! 
Nor use a faithful lover so." 
Fairest maid, §"C. 

Then come, thou fairest of the fair. 
Those wonted smiles, let me share ; 
And by that beauteous self I swear, 
No love but thine rOf heart shall know. 
Fairest maid, Sfc* 



FATE GAVE THE WORD. 

Xune—" Finlayston Hou«e." 

Fate gave the word, the arrow sped. 

And pierced my darling's heart ; 
And with him all the joys are fled 

Life can to me impart. 
My cruel hands the sapling drops, 

In dust dishonour'd laid : 
So fell the pride of all my hopes, 

My age's future shade. 

The mother linnet in the brake 

Bewails her ravished young ; 
So I for my lost darling's sake, 

Lament the live-day long. 
Death, oft I've fear'd thy fatal blow, 

Now fond I bare my breast, 
O do thou kindly lay me low 

With him I love at rest ! 



FOR THE SAKE OP SOIMEBODY 

Mt heart is sair, I dare nae tell. 
My heart is sair for somebody ; 
I could wake a winter night 
For the sake of somebody. 
Oh-hon ! for somebody ! 
Oh-hey ! for somebody ! 



• These verees, and the letter enclosing them, ar« 
written in a character that marlcs the very foeblt stato 
of their author. Mr. Syme is of opinion that he could 
not have been in any danger of a jail at Dumfries, 
where certainly he had many firm friends, nor under 
any necessity of imploring aid from Edinburgh. But 
about this time his mind began to be at times unset- 
tled, and the horrors of a Jail perpetually haunted his 
^ifflaginatiOD. He died on the 21st of thii month. 



SONGS. 



20 i 



I could range the wurld aruuiiiJ, 
For the sake of somebody. 

Ye powers that smile on virtuous love, 

O sweetly smile on somebody ! 
Frae ilka daoger keep him free, 
And send me safe my somebody. 
Oh-hon ! for somebody ! 
Oh-hey ! for somebody ! 
T wad do — what wad I not, 
For the sake of somebody ! 



FORLORN, MY LOVE. 

Tune—" Let me in this ae night." 

Forlorn, my love, no comfort near, 
Far, far fi-om thee I wander here ; 
Far, far from thee, the fate severe 
At which I most repine, love. 

O wert thou love, hut near me, 
JBut near, near, near me ; 
How kindly thou wouldst cheer mc. 
And mingle sighs with mine, love. 

Ai'ound me scowls a wintry sky. 
That blasts each bud of hope and joy ; 
And shelter, shade, nor home have I, 
Save in these arms of thine, love. 
O wert, §*c. 

Cold, alter'd friendship's cruel part, 

To poison fortune's ruthless dart — 

Let me not break thy faithful heart. 

And say that fate is mine, love. 

O wert, §-c. 

But dreary tho' the moments fleet, 
O let me think we yet shall meet ! 
That only ray of solace sweet 
Can on thy Chloris shine, love. 
O wert, §"0. 



FROM THEE, ELIZA. 
Tvne-~" Gilderoy." 

From thee, Eliza, I miist go, 

And from my native shore ; 
The cruel fates between us throw 

A boundless ocean's roar : 
But boundless oceans, roaring wide 

Between my love and me, 
They never, never can divide 

My heart and soul from thee. 

Farewell, farewell, El«a dear, 

The maid that I adore ! 
A boding voice is in mine ear, 

We part to meet no more. 
46 



But the last throb that leaves my heart, 
While death stands victor by, * 

That throb, Eliza, is thy part. 
And thine that latest sigh.* 



GALA WATER. 

Tune—" Gala Water. ' 

There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes. 
That wander through the bluming heather ; 

But Yarrow braes, nor Ettrick shaws, 
Can match the lads o' Gala Water. 

But there is ane, a secret ane, 
Abune them a' I loe him better ; 

And I'll be his, and he'll be mine, 
The bonnie lad o' Gala Water. 

Although his daddie was nae laird. 
And though I hae na mickle tocher ; 

Yet rich in kindest, truest love, 

We'll tent our flocks on Gala Water, 

It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth, 
That coft contentment, peace, or pleasure ; 

The bands and bliss o' mutual love, 
O that's the chiefest warld's treasure ! 



GLOOMY DECEMBER. 

Ance iflair I hail thee, thou gloomy December, 

Ance mair I hail thee, wi' sorrow and care ; 
Sad was the parting thou makes me remember, 

Parting wi' Nancy, Oh ! ne'er to meet mair. 
Fond lovers parting is sweet painful pleasure, 

Hope beaming mild on the soft parting hour ; 
But the dire feeling, O farewell for ever, 

Is anguish unmingl'd and agony pure. 

Wild as the winter now tearing the forest, 

'Till the last leaf o' the summer is flown, 
Such is the tempest has shaken my bosom. 

Since my last hope and last comfort is gone , 
Still as I hail thee, thou gloomy December, 

Still shall I hail thee wi' sorrow and care ; 
For sad was the parting thou makes me re- 
member, 

Parting wi' Nancy, Oh, ne'er to meet mair. 



• Miss Miller of T^Iauchline, (prolrably the same 
lady whom the poet has eelebrateil in his catalogue of 
the beauties of that village— 

" Miss Miller is fine" ) 

afterwards Mrs. Templeton, was tlie heroine of this 
beautiful song. 



20^ 



BURNS' WORKS. 



GREEN GROW THE RASHES: 

A KRAGMENT. 

Oreen (/row the rashes, O ! 

Green grow the rashes, O .' 
The sweetest hours that e'er 1 spend, 

Are spent amang the lasses, O / 

Theue's nought but care on every ban', 
In every hour that passes, O ; 

What signifies the life o' man, 
An' 'twere na for the lasses, O. 
Green grow, Sec. 

The warly race may riches chase. 
An' riches still may fly them, O; 

An' though at last they catch them fast, 
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O. 
Green grow, ^c. 

lint gic mc a canny hour at e'en. 
My arms about my dearie, O ; 

An' warly cares, an' warly men, 
Mjy a gae tapsaltcerie, O. 

Green grow, §•«. 

For you so douse, ye sneer at this, 
Ye're nought but senseless asses, O ; 

The wisest man the warld e'er saw, 
He dearly loved the lasses, O. 
Green grow, Ifc. 

Aula nature swears, the lovely dears 
Mer noblest woik she classes, O ; 

Her 'I'runtice han' she tried on man. 
And then she made the lasses, O. 
Green grow, §-c. 



GUDEWIFE, COUNT THE LAWIN. 

Tune — " Gudewife, count the Lawin." 

Cane )s the day, and mirk's the night ; 
J'lit we'll ne'er stray for faut o' light; 
r<ii- ale and brandy's stars and moon, 
Ai'.il !;lude-rcd wine's the rising sun. 

Then, gudewife, count the lawin, 

The lawin, the laioin, 

ThtH, r;n<liu-ife, count the lawin. 

And bring u cogrjie mair. 

Tluv^.'^ '.vf^alui and ease for gentlemen, 
And se!n[)le folk maim fecht and fen; 
)Ui: here we're a' in ne accord, 
i'.r i!k,i ni in tli^ir's drunk's a lord. 
//;.'«, gudewife, Sfc. 

]\iy i-iii-<Mc i.i ;i hi'v poo), 

lii.it UmU thf wourds o' care and dool j 



And pleasure is a waiUou trout — 

An' ye drink but deep, ye'll find him out. 

Then, gudetoife, count the lawin. 

The lawin, the lawin. 

Then, gudewife, count the lawin, 

jind bring's a coggie mair. 



HANDSOME NELL. 
Tune — " I am a man unmarried. .. 

O, ONCE I lov'd a bonnie Ltss, 

Ay, and I love her still, 
And whilst that virtue warms my breast, 

I'll love my handsome Nell. 
Tol lal de ral, &;c. 

As bonnie lasses 1 hae seea, 

And mony full as braw, 
But for a modest gracefu' mien 

The like I never saw. 

Tal lal de ral, ire. 

A bonnie lass, I will confess, 

Is pleasant to the ee. 
But without some better qualities 

She's no a lass for me. 

Tal lal de ral, §t. 

But Nelly's looks are blithe and sweet. 

And what is best of a' 
Her reputation was complete. 

And fair without a flaw, 

Tal lal dc ral, §-c. 

She dresses aye sae clean and neat, 

Both decent and genteel ; 
And then there's something in her gait 

Gars ony dress look weel. 

Tal lal de ral, 8fc. 

A gaudy dress and gentle aii* 

Rlay slightly touch the heart. 
But it's innocence and modesty 

That polishes the dart. 

Tal lal de red, 8fc. 

*Tis this in Nelly pleases me, 

'Tis this enchants my soul ; 
For absolutely in my breast 

She reigns without control. 
Tal lal de ral, ^c. 

It must be confessed that these lines give no 
indication of the future genius of Burns ; but 
he himself seems to have been fond of them, 
probably from the recollections they excited. 



SONGS. 



209 



HAD I A CAVE 

Hab I a cave on some wild distant shore, 
Where the winds howl to the waves' dashing roar, 
There would I weep my woes, ' 
There seek my lost repose, 
Till grief my eyes should closo, 
Ne'er to wake more. 

Falsest of womankind, canst thou declare 
All thy fond plighted vows — fleeting as air ! 
To thy new lover hie, 
Laugh o'er thy perjury, 
Then in thy bosom try j 

What peace is there. 

Compare this with the old crambo-clink, — to 
the same air — / 

Yoh'r welcome to Paxton, young Kobin Adair, 
Your welcome, but asking, sweet Robin Adair. 

How does Johnnie Mackeral do? 

Aye, and Luke Gardener too ? 

Come love me and never rue,' . 

Robin Adair. 1 



^, 



HIGHLAND HARRY. 

My Harry was a gallant gay ; 

Fu' stately strode he on the plain ; ' 

But now he's banish 'd far away, 
I'll never see him back again. 
Oh, far him hack ar/aiii ! 

Ok, for him hack again ! 
I load gie a! KnocUiaspie^s land 
For Highland Harri/ back again. 

When a' the lave gae to their bed, 

I wander dowie up the glen ; 
I sit me down, and greet my fill, 

And aye I wish him back again. 

Oh, for him back again ! Sfc. 

Oh, were some villains hang^t hie, 

And ilka body had their ain. 
Then I micht see the joyfu' sicht. 

My Highland Harry back again. 

Oh, for him back again I Sfc. 

Sad was the day, and sad the hour, 

He left me in his native plain, 
And rush'd his much-wrong'd prince to join ; 

But, oh ! he'll ne'er come back again ! 
Oh, for him back again ! §-c. 

Strong was my Harry's arm in war, 
Unmatch'd in a' Culloden's plain ; 

But vengeance marks him for her ain— 
I'll never sec him back again. • 

Oh, for him back again ! §-c. 



HIGHLAND MARY. 

Tunt—" Katherine Ogic." 



Ye banks, and braes, and streams around 

The Castle o' Montgomery ! • 
'Green be your woods, and fair your flow'rs, 

Your waters never drumlie ! 
There simmer first unfauld her rubes, 

And iliere they iangest tarry ! 
Por there I took the last fareweel' 

O' my sweet Highland Mary. 

How sweetly Woom'J the gay green birk : 
How rich the hawthorn's blossom ! 

As, underneath their fragrant shade, 
I clasp'd her to my bosom ! 

The golden hours, on angol wings, 

' Flew o'er me and my dearie ; 

For dear to me, as light and life, 
■ Was my sweet Highland Mary. 

Wi' raonie a vow and lock'd embrace. 

Our parting was fu' tender ; 
And, pledging aft to meet again, 

We tore ourselves asunder : 
But, oh ! fell death's untimely frost, 
. That nipt my flower sae early ! 
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, 

That wraps my Highland Mary !, 
I 
O pale, pale no\i', those rosy Ups, 

I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly I 
And closed for aye the sparkling glance. 

That dwelt on me sae kindly ; 
And moulJ'ring now in silent dust. 

That heart that lo'ed me dearly ! 
But still within my bosom's core. 

Shall live my Highland Maiy. 



• The first three verses of this song, excepting the 
chorus, are by Bums. The air to which it is siinc, is 
the Highlander's Farewell to Ireland, with some alter- 
ations, suDg slowly. 



HER FLOWING LOCKS ; 

A FRAGMENT. 

Her flowing locks, the raven's wing, 
Adown her neck and bosom hing ; 

How sweet unto that breast to cling, 
And round that neck entwine her ! 

Her lips are roses wat wi' dew, 
0, what a feast, her bonnie mou ! 

Her cheeks a mair celestial hue, 
A crimson still diviner. 



• Coilsfield House, near Mauchline ; but poetically 
titled as above, on account of the name of the pro. 
prietor. 



20i> 



BURNS' WORKS. 



HERE'S, A BOTTLE AND AN HONEST 
FRIEND. 

Here's, a bottle and an honest friend ! 

What wad ye wish for mair, man ? 
AVha kens, before liis Hfe may end, 

What his share may be of care, man. 
Then catch the monicuts as they fly, 

And us.e them as ye ought, man :-• -< 
Believe me, happiness is shy, 

And comes not ay when sought, maji. 



HERE'S A HEALTH TO THEM 
THAT'S AWA. 

I' ATUIOTIC U N UNISHED. 

Hiiiii's a health to them that's awa, 

Here's a health to them that's awa ; 

And wha w-inna wish gude luck to our cause. 

May never gude hick be their fa' ! 

It's gude to be merry and ^vise, 

It's gude to be honest and true, 

It's gude to support Caledonia's cause. 

And bide by the buff and the blue. 

Here's a health to them that's awa, 

Here's a health to them that's awa ; 

Here's a health to Charlie, the chief o' the clan, 

Altho' that his baud be sraa'. 

May liberty meet wi' success ! 

May prudence protect her frac evil ! 

May tyrants and tyranny tine in the mist. 

And wander their way to the devil ! 

Here's a health to them that's awa, 

Here's a health to them that's awa. 

Here's a health to Tammie, the Norland laddie, 

That lives at the lug of the law ! 

Here's freedom to him that wad read, 

Here's freedom to him that wad write ! 

There's nane ever fear'd that the truth should 

be heard. 
But they wham the truth would indite. 

Here's a health to them that's awa. 
Here's a health to them that's awa. 
Here's Chieftain M'Leod, a Chieftain worth 

gowd, 
Tho' bred amang mountains o' suaw I 



Thou art sweet as the Bintle when kind lovera 

meet, 
And soft as their parting tear, Jessie ! 

Although thou maun never be mine— 
Although even hope is denied — 

'Tis sweeter for thee despairing 

Than aught in the world beside, Jessie ! 

I mourn through the gay gaudy day, 
As hopeless I muse on thy charms ; 

But welcome the dream o' sweet slumber. 
For then I am lock'd in thy arms, Jessie ! 

I guess by the dear angel smile, 

I guess by the love-rolling ee ; 
But why urge the tender confession, 

'Gainst fortune's fell cruel decree, Jessie !• 



HERE'S A HEALTH TO ANE I LO'E 
DEAR. 

Tune—" Here's a Health to them thafs awa." 

Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear 

Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear j 



HOW CRUEL ARE THE PARENTS 

ALTERED FROM AN OLD ENGLISH SONG. 

Tune—" John Anderson my jo." 

How cruel are the parents 

Who riches only prize, 
And to the wealthy booby. 

Poor woman sacrifice. 
Meanwhile the hapless daughter 

Has but a choice of strife ; 
To shun a tyrant father's hate. 

Become a wretched wife. 

The ravening hawk pursuing, 

The trembling dove thus flie^ 
To shun impelling ruin 

A while her pinions tries ; 
'Till of escape despairing. 

No shelter or retreat, 
She trusts the ruthless falconer. 

And drops beneath his feet. 



HOW LANG AND DREARY IS THE 
NIGHT. 

Tune—" Cauld Kail in Aberdeen. 

How lang and dreary is the night, 

Wlien I am frae my dearie ; 
I restless lie frae e'en to morn, 

Though I were ne'er sae weary. 

For, oh, her lanely nights are lang, 
And, oh, her dreams are eerie. 

And, oh, her widowed heart is sair, 
Thafs absent frae her dearie. 



• Written upon Miss Lewars, now Mrs. Thomson, 
of Dumfries ; a true friend and a great favourite of 
the poet, and, at his death, one {I the most sympa. 
thizing friends of his afflicted widow. 



SONGS. 



209 



When I tKink on the lightsome days 
I spent wi' thee, my dearie ; 

And now what seas between us roar, 
How can I but be eerie ? 
For, oh, Sfc. 

How slow ye move, ye heavy hours ; 

The joyless day how dreary ! 
It wasna sae ye glinted by, 
, When I was wi' my dearie. 
For, oh, Sfc. 



I AM A SON OF MARS. 
Tunc—" Soldier's Joy." 

I AM a son of Mars who have been in many 

wars. 
And show my cuts and scars wherever I come ; 
This here was for a wench, and that other in a 

trench, 
When welcoming the French at the sound of 

the drum. 

JEal de dandle, Sfc. 

My 'prenticeship I past where my leader 

breath'd his last, 
When the bloody die was cast on the heights of 

Abram ; 
I served out ray trade when the gallant game 

was play'd. 
And the Moro low was laid at the sound of the 

drum. 

IjuI de dandle, iJt. 

I lastly was with Curtis, among the floating 

batt'ries. 
And there I left for witness an arm and a limb ; 
Yet let my country need me, with Elliot to 

head me, 
I'd clatter my stumps at the sound of the drum. 
Lai de dandle, §'e. 

And now tho' I must beg with a wooden arm 

and leg, 
And many a tatter'd rag hanging over my bum, 
I'm as happy with my wallet, my bottle and iny 

callet, 
As when I us'd in scarlet to follow a drum. 
Lai de dandle, ^c, 

AVliat tho' with hoary locks, I must stand the 

winter shocks. 
Beneath the woods and rocks often times for a 

home. 
When the tother bag I sell, and the tother 

bottle tell, 
I could meet a troop of hell at the sound of the 

drum. 

Lai d& daudle, Ifc. 



I DREAM'D I LAY WHERE FLOWERS 
WERE SPRINGING. 

These two stanzas I composed when I was 
seventeen, and are among the oldest of my print- 
ed pieces. 

I dream'd I lay where flowers were springing, 

Gaily in the sunny beam ; 
List'ning to the wild birds singing, 

By a falling, crystal stream : 
Straight the sky grew black and daring ; 

Thro' the woods the whirlwinds rave ; 
Triees with aged arms were warring, 

O'er the swelling, drumlie wave. 

Such was my life's deceitful morning, 

Such the pleasures I enjoy'd ; 
But lang or noon, loud tempests storming, 

A' my flow'ry bliss destroy'd. 
Tho' tickle fortune has deceiv'd me, 

She promis'd fair, and perform'd but ill ; 
Of mony a joy and hope bereav'd me, 

1 bear a heart shall support me still. 



I'LL AYE CA' IN BY YON TOUN 

Tune — " rU gang nae mair to yon town." 

I'l.i, ayo ca' in by yon toun. 

And by yon garden green again ; 

I'll aye ca' in by yon toun. 

And see my bonnie Jean again. 

There's nane shall ken, there's nane shall g^ss 
What brings me back the gate again, 

But she, my fairest faithfu' lass ; 
And stowlins we shall meet again. 

She'll wander by the aiken tree. 

When trystin time draws near again ; 

And when her lovely form I see, 
O haith, she's doubly dear again. 

I'll aye ca' in by you toun, 

And by yon garden gi-een again ; 

I'll aye ca' in by yon toun. 

And see my bonnie Jean again. 



I'M O'ER YOUNG TO MARRY YET. 

The chorus is old : — the rest of it, such as it 
IS, is mine. 

I'm my mauimy's ae bairn, 

Wi' unco folk, I weary, Sir ; 
And lying in a man's lied, 

I'm fley'd wad niak me irie, Sir. 
/'m o'er younp, Pm o'er yotiny, 
I'm o'er younp to marry yet f 



206 



BURNS' WORKS. 



tni V young, twad he a sin 
To tak mefrae my mammy yet. 

Hallowmas is come and gane, 

The nights are lang in winter, Sir ; 

And you and I in ae bed, 

In trowth I darena venture, Sir. 
Fm o'er yotin<j, Sfc. 

My minnie coft me a new gown. 

The kirk maun hae the gracing o't ; 

War I to lie wi' you, kind Sir, 

I'm fear'd ye'd spoil the lacing o't. 
Tm o'er young, §•£. 

Fu' loud and shrill the frosty wind 
Blaws thro' the leafless tiramer, Sir ; 

But should ye come this gate again, 
I'll aulder be gin simmer. Sir. 

I'm o'er young, Sfc. 



IT IS NA, JEAN, THY BONNIE FACE. 

These were originally English verses; — I 
gave them their Scotch dress. 

It is na, Jean, thy bonnie face, 

Nor shape that I admire, 
Altho' thy beauty and thy grace 

Might weel awauk desire. 
Something in ilka part o' thee 

To praise, to love, I find ; 
But dear as is thy form to me. 

Still dearer is thy mind. 

Nae mair ungen'rous wish I hae, 

Nor stronger in my breast. 
Than, if I canna mak thee sae, 

At least to see thee blest. 
Content am I, if heaven shall give 

But happiness to thee : 
And as wi' thee I'd wish to live, 

For thee I'd bear to die. 



JAMIE, COME TRY ME, 

Jamie, come try me, 
Jamie, come try me ; 
If ye wad win my love, 
Can ye na try me ? 
If ye should ask my love, 
Could 1 deny thee ? 
If ye wad win my love, 
Jamie, come try me. 

My heart leaps light, my love, 
When ye come nigh me ; 
If I had wings, my love, 
Think na I'd flv thee. 



If ye wad woo me, love, 
Wha can espy thee ? 
I'm far aboon fortune, love, 
When I am by thee. 

I come from my chamber 
When the moon's glowing ; 
I walk by the streamlet 
'JMang the broom flowing. 
The bright moon and stars, love- 
None else espy me ; 
And if ye wad win my love, 
Jamie, come try me. 



JOCKIE'S TA'EN THE PARTING KISS. 

Jockie's ta'en the parting kiss, 

Ower the mountains he is gane ; 
And with him is a' my bliss ; 

Nought but griefs wi' me remain. 
Spare my love, ye winds that blaw, 

Plashy sleets, and beating rain ! 
Sparc my love, thou feathery snaw, 

Drifting o'er the frozen plain ! 

When the shades of evening creep 

Ower the day's fair gladsome ee, 
Sound and safely may he sleep. 

Sweetly blythe his waukening be ! 
He will think on her he loves. 

Fondly he'll repeat her name ; 
For, where'er he distant roves, 

Jockie's heart is still at hame. 



JOHN BARLEYCORN. • 

A. BALLAD. 

There were three kings into the east. 
Three kings both great and high. 

An' they hae sworn a solemn oath 
John Barleycorn should die. 

They took a plough and plough'd him down^ 

Put clods upon his head. 
And they hae sworn a solemn oath 

John Barleycorn was dead. 

But the cheerful spring came kindly on, 

And show'rs began to fall ; 
John Barleycorn got up again. 

And sore surpris'd them all. 

The sultry suns of summer came. 

And he grew thick and strong. 
His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears, 

That no one should him wrong. 



• This is partly composed on the plan of an oW 
song known by the same name. 



SONGS. 



207 



Tiie sober auhu&n entered mild, 
' When he grew wan and pale ; 
fiis bending joints and drooping head 
Show'd he began to fail. 

His colour sicken'd more and more, 

He feded into age ; 
And then his enemies began 

To show their deadly rage. 

They've ta'en a weapon long and sharp, 

And cut him by the knee ; 
Then ty'd him fast upon a cart. 

Like a rogue for forgerie. 

Tbey laid him down upon his back, 

And cudgell'd him full sore ; 
They hung him up before the storm, 

And tum'd him o'er and o'er. 

They filled up a darksome pit 

With water to the brim, 
They heaved in John Barleycorn, 

There let him sink or swim. 

They laid him out upon the floor, 

To work him farther woe, 
And still as signs of life appear'd, 

They toss'd him to and fro. 

They wasted o'er a scorching flame. 

The marrow of his bones ; 
But a miller used him worst of all, 

For he crush'd him between two stones. 

And they hae ta'en his very heart's blood 
And drank it round and round ; 

And still the more and more they drank. 
Their joy did more abound. 

John Barleycorn was a hero bold, 

Of noble enterprise. 
For if you do but taste his blood, 

'Twill make your courage rise. 

'Twill make a man forget his woe ; 

'Twill heighten all his joy : 
'Twill make the widow's heart to sing, 

Tho' the tear were in her eye. 

Then let us toast John Barleycorn, 

Each man a glass in hand ; 
And may his great posterity 

Ne'er fail in old Scotland ! 



JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO, BfPROVED. 

John Anderson, my jo, John, I wonder what 

you mean. 
To rise so soon in the morning, and sit up so 

late Rt e en, 



Ye'U blear out a* your een, John, and why 

should you do su. 
Gang sooner to your bed at e'en, John Anderson, 

my jo. 

John Anderson, my jo, John, when nature first 
began 

To tr)' her canny hand, John, her master-work 
was man ; 

And you amang them i', John, sae trig frae 
tap to toe. 

She proved to be nae journey-work, John An- 
derson, my jo. 

John Anderson, my jo, John, ye were my first 
conceit, 

And ye na think it strange, John, tho* I ca' ye 
trim and neat ; 

Tho' some folk say ye' re auld, John, I never 
think ye so. 

But I think ye're ave the same to me, John An- 
derson, my jo. 

John Anderson, my jo, John, we've seen our 

bairns' bairns. 
And yet, my dear John Anderson, I'm happy 

in your arms. 
And sae are ye in mine, John — I'm sure ye'll 

ne'er say no, 
Tho' the days are gane, that we have seen, John 

Anderson, my jo. 

John Anderson, my jo, John, what pleasure 
does it gie 

To see sae mony sprouts, John, spring up 'tween 
you and me. 

And ilka lad and lass, John, in our footsteps to go. 

Makes perfect heaven here on earth, John An- 
derson, my jo. 

John Anderson, my jo, John, when we were 
first acquaint. 

Your locks were like the raven, your bonnie 
brow was brent. 

But now your head's turned bald, John, your 
locks are like the snaw, 

Yet blessings on your frosty pow, John Ander- 
son, my jo. 

John Anderson, my jo, John, frae year to yeai 
we've past, 

And soon that year maun come, John, will 
bring us to our last : 

But let nae that affright us, John, our hearts 
were ne'er our foe. 

While in innocent delight we lived, John An- 
derson, my jo. 

John Anderson, my jo, John, we clam the hill 

thegither, 
Aud mony a canty ilay, John, we've had wi 

ane auither ; 



SOS 



.BURNS' WORKS. 



Now we maun totter down, John, but hand in 
hand we'll go, 

And we'll sleep thegither at the foot, John An- 
derson, niy jo. 



LAST MAY A BRAW WOOER. 

Tune—." The Lothian Lassie." 

Last May a braw wooer cam' down the lang 
glen, 
And sair wi' his love he did deave me ; 
I said there was naething I hated like men : 
The deuce gae wi' hitn to believe me, beheve 

me, 
The deuce gae wi' him to believe me ! 

He spak' o* the darts o' ray bonnie black een, 
And Vow'd for my love he was deein'. 

I said he micht dee when he liked for .Tean ; 
The guid forgi'e me for lecin', for leein'. 
The guid forgi'e me for leeia' ! 

A weel-stockit mailin', himsell for the hiird, 
And marriage aff-hand, were his profter. 

I never loot on that I kenn'd it or cared j 
But thocht I might hae a waur offer, waur 

offer, 
But thought I might hae a waur offer. 

But, what wad ye think, in a ibrtnicht or less, — 
The deil's in his taste to gang near her ! — 

He up the lang loan to my black cousin Bess — 
Guess ye how, the jaud ! I could bear her, 

_could bear her. 
Guess ye how, the jaud ! I could bear her ! 

But a' the neist week, as I fretted wi' care, 
I gaed to the tryst o' Dalgarnock ; 

And wha but my braw fickle wooer was there .' 
Wha glowr'd as he had seen a warlock, a 

warlock, 
Wha glowr'd as he had seen a warlock. 

Out ower my left shouther I gi'ed him a blink, 
Lest neebors micht say I was saucy ; 

My wooer he caper'd as he'd been in drink. 
And vow'd I was hi^ dear lassie, dear lassie, 
And vow'd I was his dear lassie. 

I speir'd for my cousin, fou couthie and sweet. 

Gin she bad recover'd her hearin' ? 
And how my auld shoon fitted her nhauchled 
feet?* 
Gude sauf us ! how he fell a-swearin', a- 

swearin', 
Gude sauf us ! how he fell a-swearin'. 



He.begged, for gudesake ! I wad be his wi^ 
Or else I wad kill him wi' sorrow ; 

Sae, e'en to preserve the puir body in life, 
I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-mork 

row, 
I think I maun wed him to-morrow. 



LASSIE WI' THE LINT- WHITE LOCKS. 
Tutu—" Rothiemurchus' Rant" 

Lassie wi' the lint white locks, 

JBonnie lassie, artless lassie. 
Wilt thou wi' me tend the flochs ? 

Wilt thou be my dearie, O 9 

Now Nature cleads the flowery lea. 
And a' is young and sweet like thee, 
O, wilt thou share its joys wi' me. 
And say thou'lt be my dearie, O ? 
JLassie wi', Sfc. 

And when the welcome simmer shower 
Has cheer'd ilk drooping little flower, 
We'll to the breathing woodbine bower, 
At sultry noon, my dearie, O. 
Lassie wi^, §•€. 

When Cynthia lights, wi' silver ray, 
The weary shearer's hameward way. 
Through yellow-waving fields we'll stray, 
And talk o' love, my dearie, O. 
Lassie, wi', Sfc. 

And when the howling wintry blast 
Disturbs my lassie's midnight rest, 
Enclasped to my faithful breast, 
I'll comfort thee, my dearie, 0. 
Lassie, wi', 8fc, 



* In Seotlanc], when a cast-off lover pays his ad- 
dresses to a new mistress, that new mistress is said to 
have got the auld slioon (old slices) of the former one. 
Here the metaphor is made to carry .an extremely in- 
genious sarcasm at the clumsiness of the new mistress's 
person, 



LAY THY LOOP IN MINE, LASS 

Tune—" O lay the loof in mine, lass." 

O LAY thy loof in mine, lass, 
In mine, lass, in mine, lass ; 
And swear on thy white hand, lass, 
That thou wilt be my ain. 

A slave to love's unboimded sway, 
He aft has wrought me muckle wae ; 
But now he is my deadly fae, 
Unless thou be my ain. 

There's mony a lass has broke my rest. 
That for a blink I hae lo'ed best ; 
But thou art queen ivithin my breast, 
For ever to remain. 



SONGS. 



S09 



LET NOT WOMAN E'ER COMPLAIN. 

Tune—" Duncan Gray." 

Lkt not woman e'er complain 

Of inconstancy in love ; 
Let not woman e'er complain, 

Fickle man is apt to rove. 

Look abroad through nature's range, 
Nature's mighty law is change j 
Ladies, would it not be strange, 

Man should, then, a monster prove ? 

Mark the winds, and mark the skies ; 

Ocean's ebb, and ocean's flow. 
Sun and moon but set to rise ; 

Roimd and round the seasons go. 

Why, then, ask of silly man. 
To oppose great nature's plan ? 
We'll be constant while we can. 
You can be no more, you know. 



LONG, LONG THE NIGHT. 

Tune—" Aye wakin*." 

Long, long the night. 

Heavy comes the morrow, 

While my soul's delight, 
Is on her bed of sorrow. 

Can I cease to care, 

Can I cease to languish. 
While my darling fair 

Is on the couch of anguish ?. 
Zong, Sfc. 

Every hope is fled. 

Every fear is terror : 
Slumber e'en I dread. 

Every dream is horror. 
Zong, §-c. 

Hear me, pow'rs divine ! 

Oh, in pity hear me ! 
Take aught else of minej 

But my Chloris spare me ! 
Zong, SjC. 



LOGAN BRAES. 

Tune—" Logan Water." 

0, Logan sweeetly didst thou glide. 
That day I was my Willie's bride ; 
And years sinsyne hae o'er us run, 
Like Ldgiin to tlie simmer sun. 
But now tliL' flowi'iy hunks appear 
Like (iiuinlie wintor, dark an diviir, 
While my dear lad niiiun fare his faes, 
Far, far iVae nie and Logan braes. 



Again the merty month o' May, 

Has made our hills and valleys gay ; 

The birds lejoice in leafy bowers, 

The bees hum round the breathing fiowera ! 

Blythe morning lifts his rosy eye, 

And evening's tears are tears of joy : 

My soul, delightless, a' surveys, 

While Willie's far frae Logan braes. 

Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush, 
Amang her nestlings sits the thrush : 
Her faitbfu' mate will share her toil. 
Or wi' his song her cares beguile ; 
But I, wi' my sweet nurslings here, 
Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer, 
Pass widow'd nights and joyless days, 
While Willie's far frae Logan braes. 

O wae upon you, men o' state. 
That brethren rouse to deadly hate ' 
As ye make mony a fond heart mourn, 
Sae may it ou your heads return ! 
How can your flinty hearts enjoy. 
The widow's tears, the orphan's cry J* 
But soon may peace bring happy daya. 
And Willie, hame to Logan braes ! 



LORD GREGORY. 

Oh, mirk, mirk is this midnight hoUTf 

And loud the tempests roar ; 
A waefu' wanderer seeks thy tower, 

Lord Gregory, ope thy door \ 

An exile firae her father's ha*, 

And a' for loving thee ; 
At least some pity on me shaw, 

If love it may na be. 

Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the gwn 

By bonnie Irvine side. 
Where first I own'd that virgin love 

I lang lang had denied ? 

How aften didst thou pledge the vow, 

Thou wad for aye be mine ! 
And my fond heart, itsell sae true. 

It ne'er mistrusted thine. 

Hard is thy heart. Lord Gregory, 

And flinty is thy breast ! 
Thou dart of heaven that flashes by. 

Oh, wilt thou give me rest ! 

Ye mustering thunders from above. 
Your willing vit-tiin see ; 



Oriiiinally, 
" Ve mind nn 'miri your cruel joyS, 



But spare a.nu pardob uty false love 
Hit TrroDgs to heaven and me ! * 



BURNS' WORKS. 



LINES ON LORD DAER. 

This wot ye all whom it concerns, 
J, Rhymer Robin, alias Burns, 

October twenty- third, 
A ne'er-to-be-forgotten day, 
Sae far I sprackled f up the brae, 

I dinner'd wi' a Lord. 

I've been at drunken writers' \ feasts, 
Nay, been bitch fou 'mang godly priests, 

Wi' rev'rence be it spoken ; 
I've even join'd the honour'd jorum, 
When mighty Squireships of the quorum, 

Their hydra drouth did sloken. 

But wi a Lord — stand out my shin, 
A Lord — a Peer — an Earl's son, 

Up higher yet my bonnet ; 
An* sic a Lord — lang Scotch ells twa, 
Our peerage he o'erlooks them a' 

As I look o'er a sonnet. 

But O for Hogarth's magic power ! 
To show Sir Bardy's willyart glowr,§ 

And how he stared and stammer'd, 
Whan goavan || as if led wi' branks,^ 
An* stumpan on his ploughman shanks, 

He in the parlour hammer'd. 



plicity of appearance, the sweetness of counte- 
nance and manners, and the unsuspecting bene- 
volence of heart, of Basil, Lord Daer. — It was a 
younger brother of his who, as Earl of Selkirk, 
became so well known as the advocate of volun- 
tary emigration; and who settled the colony 
upon the Red River. 



1 sidling shelter'd in a nook, 
An' at his Lordship steal' t a look, 

Like some portentous omen ; 
£zcept good sense and social glee, 
An' (what surprised me) modesty, 

I marked nought uncommon. 

1 watch'd the symptoms o' the Great, 
The gentle pride, the lordly state 

The arrogant assuming ; 
The fient a pride, nae pride had he, 
Nor sauce, nor state that I could see, 

Mair than an honest ploughman. 

Then from his Lordship I shall learn, 
Hencefortn to meet with unconcern, 

One rank as well's another ; 
Nae honest worthy man need care. 
To meet with noble youthful Daer, 

For he but meets a brother. 

These lines will be read with no common in- 
terest by all who remember the unaffected sim- 



• Thij song was composed upon the subject of tlib 
well-known and very beautiful ballad, entitled " The 
i^ass of Lochroyan." 

t Clambered. t Attorneys. 

i Frightened st-ire. || Walking stupidly. 

' 1 A kind of bridle. 



MACPHERSON'S FAREWELL. 

Tune—" Macpherson's Rant" , 

Fareweil, ye prisons dark and strong. 

The wretch's destinie ! 
Macpherson's time will not be long 
On yonder gallows tree ! 

Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, 

Sae dantonly gaed he. 
He play'd a spring, and danced it round, 
Beneath the gallows tree ! 

Oh, what is death, but parting breath ? 

On mony a bluidy plain 
I've daur'd his face, and in this place 

I scorn him yet again. 

Sae rantingly, ^-c. 

Untie these bands frae aff my hands, 

And bring to me my sword ; 
And there's nae man in a' Scotland 

But I'll brave him at a word. 
Sae rantingly, 8fc. 

I've lived a life of sturt and strife ; 

I die by treacherie : 
It burns my heart I must depart, 

And not avenged be. 

Sae rantingly, Sfc^ 

Now fareweil, light, thou sunshine bright, 

And all beneath the sky I 
May coward shame distain his name, 

The wretch that dares not die ! 
Sae rantingly, S^c. 



MARIA'S DWELLING. 
Tune-'" The last time I cam o'er the Moor." 

Fareweli. thou stream that winding flows 

Around Maria's dwelling ! 
Ah cruel mem'ry ! spare the throes 

Within my bosom swelling : 
Condemn'd to drag a hopeless chain, 

And still in secret languish ; 
To feel a fire in ev'ry vein, 

Yet dare not speek my anguish. 

The wretch of love, unseen, unknown, 
I fain rav crime would cover : 



SONGS. 



Sll 



The buwtiug sigii, tK' unweeting groan 

Betray the hopeless lover. 
I know my doom must be despair. 

Thou wilt, nor canst relieve me ; 
Bat oh, Maria, hear one prayer, 

For pity's sake forgive me. 

The music of thy tongue I heard, 

Nor wist while it enslav'd me ; 
I taw tiiine eyes, yet nothing fear'a, 

'Till fears no more had saved me. 
The unwary sailor thus aghast, 

The wheeling torrent viewing ; 
'Mid circling horrors yields at last 

To overwhelming ruin. 



To thee my fancy took Its wing— 
I sat, but neither heard nor saw. 

Though this was fair, tad that was braw. 
And you the toast o* a' the town, 

I sigh'd, and said amang them a', 
Ye are na Mary Morison. 

O, Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, 

Wha for thy sake wad gladly dee ? 
Or canst thou break that heart of hit, 

Whase only faut is loving thee ? 
If love for love thou wilt na gie. 

At least be pity to me shown ; 
A thocht ungentle canna be 

The thocht of Mary Morison. 



MARK YONDER POMP. 

Tvine—" Deil tak* the wars." 

Mare yonder pomp of costly fashion, 

Round the wealthy, titled bride : 
Bst when compared with real passion, 

Poor is all that princely pride. 

What are their showy treasures ? 

What are their noisy pleasures ? 
The gay, gaudy glare of vanity and art. 

The poUsh'd jewel's blaze. 

May draw the wond'ring ga«e, 

And courtly grandeur bright. 

The fancy may delight. 
But never, never can come near the heart. 

But did yon see my dearest Chloris, 

In simplicity's array ; 
Lovely as yonder sweet opening flower i», 

Shrinking from the gaze of day. 

O then the heart alarming. 

And all resistless charming. 
In Lore's delightful fetters she chains the wil' 
ling soul ! 

Ambition would disown 

The world's imperial crown. 

Even Av'rice would deny 

His worshipp'd deity, 
And feel thro' every vein Love's raptures roll. 



MARY MORISON. 
TwM—" Bide ye yet" 

O, Mary, at thy window be ; 

It is the wished, the trysted hour : 
Those smiles and glances let me see 

That make the miser's treasure poor. 
How blythely wad I byde the stoure, 

A weary slave frae sun to sun, 
Could I the rich reward secure. 

The lovely Mary Morison ! 

Yestreen, when to the stented string 
The dance gaed through the lichtit ha', 



MEG O' THE MILL. 

Tunt—" O bonnie lass, will you lie in a bamck." 

0, KEX ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten, 
An' ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten ? 
She has gotten a coof wi' a claut o' siller, 
And broken the heart o' the barley miller. 

The miller was strappin', the miller was ruddy ; 
A heart like a lord, and a hue like a lady : 
The laird was a wuddiefu' bleerit knurl ; 
She's left the guid fallow, and ta'en the churl. 

The miller he techt her a heart leal and loving : 
Th? laird did address her wi' matter mair mo- 

A fine pacing-horse wi' a clear-chain'd bridle, 
A whip by her side, and a bonny side-saddle. 

O wae on the siller, it's sae prevailing ; 
And wae on the love that's fix'd on a mailin' ! 
A tocher's nae word in a true lover's paile. 
But, Gie me my love, and a fig for the warl ! 



MUSING ON THE ROARING OCEAN. 

I COMPOSED these verses out of compliment 
to a Mrs. M'Lachlan, whose husband is an of- 
ficer in the East Indies. 

Tune—" Drumion Dubh." 
f 
Musing on the roaring ocean. 

Which divides my love and me ; 
Wearying heaven in warm devotion, 
For his weal where'er he be. 

Hope and fear's alternate billow 

Yielding late to nature's law, 
Whispring spirits round my pillow. 

Talk of hue that's far awa. 

Ye whom sorrow never wounded, 
Ye who never shed a tear, 



512 



BTTRN^S' WOntCS. 



Csre-iintroiiMet!, joV-surfoiindcil, 
(jiiidy day to yon is iliar. 

Oiyfitlff niglit, do tlinu bpfiictul me, 
Downy sleep the ciiit.iia draw ; 

Spirits kind, ag;ain attend ine, 
Talk of him that's far awa ! 



MY BONNIE MARY. 

This air is Oswald's ; the first half-stanza 
of the song is old, the rest mine,* 

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, 

An' fill it in a silver tassie ; 
That I may drink before I go, 

A service to my bonnie lassie ; 
The boat rocks at the pior o' Leith ; 

Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry ; 
The ship rides by the Berwick-law, 

And I maun lea'e my bonnie Mary. 

The trumpets sound, the banners fly, 

The glittering spears are ranked ready ; 
The shouts o' war are heard afar, 

The battle closes thick and bloody ; 
But it's not the roar o' sea or shore 

Wad make me longer wish to tarry ; 
Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar. 

It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary. 



MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS. 

Mr heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not 

here-.— 
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer ; 

A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, 
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. 
Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the 

North, 
The birth-place of valour, the country of worth ; 
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove. 
The hiUs of the Highlands for ever I love. 

Farewell to the mountains high cover'd with 

snow ; 
Farewell to the straths and green valleys below ; 
Farewell to the forests and wild hanging woods ; 
Faiewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods. 
My heart's in the Higlilands, my heart is not 

here ; 
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer. 
Chasing the wild deer and following the 
My heart's in the Higldauds wherever I go. 



* This song, which Dums here acknowledges to be 
)ru own, was first introduced by him in a letter to 
>lrs, Diinlop, as two oltl ttangat. 



MY LADY'S GOWN THERE'S GATRS 
UPON'T. 

Mv lady's gown there's gairs upon't. 
And gowden flowers sae rare upon't ; 
But Jenny's jimps and jirlcinet. 
My lord thinks rnucklc mair upon't. 

My lord a-hunting he is gane. 

But hounds or hawks wi' him are nane; 

By Colin's cottage lies his game. 

If Colin's Jenny be at hame. 

My lady's white, my lady's red. 
And kith and kin o' Cassilis' blude, 
But her ten-pund lands o' tocher gude 
Were a' the charms his lordship lo'ed. 

Out o'er yon moor, out o'er yon moss, 
Whare gor-cocks through the heather pass • 
There wons auld Colin's bonny lass, 
A lily in a wilderness. 

Sae sweetly move her genty limbs, 
Like music notes o' lover's hymns : 
The diamond dew is her een sae blue, 
Where laughing love sae wanton swims. 

My lady's dink, my lady's drest, 
The flower and fancy o' the west ; 
But the lassie that man lo'es the best, 
O that's the lass to mak him blest. 



MY NANNIE'S AWA. 

Tune—" There'll never be peace till Jamie comei 
hame." 

Now in her green mantle blythe nature arrays. 
And listens the lanibkius that bleat ower the 

braes, 
While birds warble welcome in ilka green »haw ; 
But to me it's delightless — my Nannie's awa. 

The snaw-drap and primrose our woiMllitnds 

adorn. 
And violets bathe in the weet o' the morn ; 
They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they blaw ! 
They mind mc o' Nannie — and Nannie's awa. 

Thou laverock, that »prings frae the dews of 

the lawn. 
The shepherd to warn of the grey-breaking 

dawn ; 
And thou mellow mavis, that hails the nigfat-fa' ; 
Give over for pity — my Nannie's awa. 

Come, autumn, sae pensive, in yellow and grey. 
And soothe me wi' tiding^^ o' nature's decay. 
The dark, dreary winter, and wUd-thiving snaw, 
Alane can delight me — my Nannie's awa. 



SONGS. 



21S 



MY NANNIE, O. 
Thme—" My Nannie, O." 

Behind yon hills where Stinchar flows, 

Mang moors an' mosses many, O, 
The wintry sun the day has clos'd, 

And I'll awa to Nannie, O. 
The westland wind blaws loud an' shrill j 

The night's baith mirk and rainy, O ; 
But I'll get my plaid and out I'll steal, 

An' owre the hills to Nannie, O. 

My Nannie's charming, sweet, an' young ; 

Na' artfu' wiles to win ye, O ; 
May ill befa' the flattering tongue 

That wad beguile my Nannie, O. 
Her face is fair, her heart is true. 

As spotless as she's bonnie, O : 
The opening gowan, wet wi' dew, 

Nae purer is than Nannie, O. 

A country lad is my degree. 

An' few there be that ken me, O ; 
But what care I how few they be, 

I'm welcome aye to Nannie, O. 
My riches a' 's my penny-fee, 

An' I maun guide it cannie, O ; 
But warl's gear ne'er troubles me, 

My thoughts ai°e a' my Nannie, 0< 

Our auld Guidman delights to view 

His sheep an' kye thrive bonnie, O ; 
But I'm as blythe that bauds his pleugh, 

An' has nae care but Nannie, O. 
Come weel, come woe, I care na by, 

I'll take what Heaven will sen' me, O ; 
Nae ither care in life hae I, 

But hve, an' love my Nannie, O. 



MY PEGGY'S FACE, 

Mt Peggy's face, my Peggy's form 
The frost of Hermit age might warm ; 
My Peggy's worth, my Peggy's mind. 
Might charm the first of human kind : 
I love my Peggy's angel air. 
Her face so truly, heavenly fair, 
Her native grace so void of art, 
But I adore my Peggy's heart. 

The lily's hue, the rose's dye. 
The kindling lustre of an eye ; 
TiMio but owns their magic sway, 
Who but knows they all decay ! 
The tender thrill, the pitying tear. 
The generous purpose, nobly dear, 
The gentle look, that rage disarms, 
These are all immortal charms. 



MY SODGER LADDIE, 

THE soldier's doxy's SONG IN " THE JOI.L'? 
BEGGAaS." 

Tune—" Sodger Laddie." 

I ONCE was a maid, tho' I caona tell when. 
And still my delight is in proper young men ; 
Some one of a troop of dragoons was my daddie,— 
No wonder I'm fond of a sodger laddie. 
Sin^, Lai de lul, Sfc. 

The lirst of my loves was a swaggering hhde. 
To rattle the thundering drum was his trade ; 
His log was so tight, and his cheek was so ruddy, 
Transported I was with my sodgor laddie. 
Sing, Lai de lal, Sfc. 

But the godly old chaplain left Liui in the lurch, 
The sword I forsook for the sake of the church. 
He vcntur'd the soul, and I ri^>kud the body, 
'Twas then I prov'd false to my sodger kddie. 
Sinff, Lul de lal, S^c. 

Full soou I grew sick of my sanctified sot. 
The regiment at large for u husband I got ; 
From the gilded spontoon to the fife I was ready, 
I asked no more but a sudger laddio. 
iSiiiff, Lal de lal, 8fc, 



the peace it reduc'd me "to beg in de<paiiS*^ 
I met my old boy at Cunningham fmr ;' 



But 

Till 

His rar/ rq/imentul tliey flutter'd so fi:aii;!y, 

My heart it rejoic'd at my sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lal de ltd, §-c. M 

And now I have liv'd — I know not how long, 
And still I can join in a cup or a song ; 
But whilst with both hands I can hold the glass 
steady, "J 

Here's to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie. 
Sing, Lal de lal, §*c. 



MY SPOUSE NANCIE. 
2^ne— " My Jo, Janet" 

Husband, husband, cease yonr strife, 
Nor longer idly rave. Sir ; 

Though I am your wedded wife, 
Yet I'm not your slave, Sir. 

One of two must still obey, 

Nancie, Nancie; 
Is it mail or woman, say, 

IMy spouse Naucie ? 

If 'tis •till the lordly word, 
Service and obedience ; 

I'll desert my soveiuiL;ii lord, 
And so good-bye allegiance 

Sad will I be to heref:, 
N.mac, Nan«c ; ;, ^^ ^ ^j 



214 



Yet I'll try to moke a boilt, 
My spouse Nancie. 

My poor heart then break it rau&t, 

My laat hour I'm near it ; 
When you lay me in the dust, 

Think — think how you will bear it. 

I will hope and trust in Heaven, 

Nancie, Nancie, 
Strength to bear it will be given, 

My cpouse Nancie. 

Well, Sir, from the silent dead. 
Still I'll try to daunt you ; 

Ever round your midnight bed 
Horrid sprites shall haunt you. 

I'll wed another like my dear 

Nancie, Nancie ; 
Then all hell will fly for fear. 

My spouse Nancie ! 



BURNS* WORKS. 



MY TOCHER'S THE JEWEL. 

O MEIKLE thinks my luvc o' my beauty. 

And meikle thinks my luve o' my kin ; 
But little thinks my luve I ken brawlie, 

My tocher's the jewel has charms for him. 
It's a' for the apple he'll nourish the tree ; 

It's a' for the hinney he'll cherish the bee. 
My laddie's sae meikle in luve wi' the siller. 

He cauna hae luve to spare for mc. 

Your proffer o' luvc's an arle penny, 

My tocher's the bargain ye wad buy ; 
But an' ye be crafty, I am cunnin, 

Sae ye wi' anither your fortune maun try. 
Ye're like to the timmcr o' yon rotten wood, 

Ye're like to the bark o' yon rotten tree, 
Ye'U slip firae me like a knotless thread. 

And ye'll crack your credit wi' mae nor me. 



MY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE THING. 

r«m*— "My wife's a wanton wee thing." 

Shx is a winsome wee thing, 
She is a handsome wee thing, 
She is a bonnie wee thing, 
This sweet wee wife o' mine ! 

I never saw a fairer, 
I never loo'd a dearer ; 
And neist my heart I'll wear her, 
For fear my jewel tine. 

Sba b a winsome wee thing, 
6be is a handsome wee thiu^, 
She is a bonnie wee thing, 
Tbtf BWt«t wet wife o' uiae. 



The warld'b wrack we share o't, 
The warstle and the care o't ; 
W her I'll blythely bear it. 
And think my lot divine. 



NAE-BODY. 

I HA£ a wife o' my ain, 
I'll partake wi' nae-body ; 

I'll tak cuckold frae nane, 
I'll gie cuckold to nae-body. 

I hae a penny to spend. 

There— thanks to nae-body ; 
I hae naething to lend, 

I'll borrow frae nae-body. 

I am nae-body's lord, 

I'll be slave to nae-body ; 

I hae a guid braid sword, 
I'll tak dunts frae nae-body. 

I'll be merry and free, 
I'll be sad for nae-body ; 

If nae-body care for mo, 
I'll care for nae-body. 



NANCY. 



Tkike am I, my faithful fair. 
Thine, my lovely Nancy ; 

Ev'ry pulse along my veins, 
Ev'ry roving fancy. 

To thy bosom lay my heart. 
There to throb and languish ; 

Tho' despair had wrung its core. 
That would heal its anguish. 

Take away these rosy lips. 
Rich with balmy treasure : 

Turn away thine eyes of love. 
Lest I die with pleasure. 

What is life when wanting love ? 

Night without a morning : 
Love's the cloudless summer sua 

Nature gay adorning. 



NOW SPRING HAS CLAD THE GROVE 
IN GREEN. 

Now spring has clad the grove in greeo, 

And strew'd the lea wi* flowers ; 
The furrow'd waving corn is seen 

Rejoice ia foiteripg sb«wen ; 



SONGS. 



215 



While ilka thing iu nature join 

Their sorrows to forego, 
O why thu3 all alone arc mine 

The weary steps of woo ! 

The trout within yon wimjiling burn 

Glides swift, a silver dart, 
And safe beneath the shady thorn 

Defies the angler's ort ; 
My lifcwas ance that careless stream, 

That wanton tiout was I ; 
But love, wi' unrelenting beam, 

Has bcorch'd my fountains dry. 

The little flow'ret's peaceful lot, 

In yonder cliff that grows, 
Which save the linnet's flight, I wot, 

Nae ruder visit knows, 
Was miue ; till love has o'er ine past, 

And blighted a' my bloom, 
And now beneath the withering bla.^:, 

My youth and joy consume. 

The waken'd lav'rock warbling springs. 

And clim'os the early shy, 
Winnowing blythe her dewy wings 

In morning's rosy eye ; 
As little reckt I sorrow's power, 

Until the flowery snare 
O' witching love, in luckless hou;-. 

Made me the thrall o' care. 

O Lad my fate been Greenland's snows, 

Or Afiic's burning zone, 
Wi' man and nature leagued my foes. 

So Peggy ne'er I'd known ! 
The wretch whase doom is, " hope uae tiiair, 

That tongue his woes cm tell ! 
Within whase bosom, save despair, 

Nae kinder spirits dwell. 



NOW BANK AND BRAK ARE CLAD 
IN GREEN. 

Now bank and brae arc clad in green 

An' scatter'd cowslips sweetly spring, 
By Girvan's fairy haunted stream 

The birdies flit on wanton v.-ing. 
To Cassillis' banks when e'ening fa'a, 

Tliei,' wi' my Mary lot nie flee, 
There catch her ilka glance of love 

Tht; bonuie blink o' Mary's ee ! 

Tlie child wha boasts o' warld's walth, 

Is aften laird o' meikle care ; 
But Mary she is a' my ain, 

Ah, fortune canna gie me mair ! 
Then let me range by Cassillis' banks, 

Wi' her the lassie dear to me. 
And catch her ilka glance o' love, 

The botnic blink o' Mary's co ! 



NOW WESTLIN' WINDS. 
Tune—" 1 had a horse, I had nae mait." 

Now westlin' winds, and Klaughtering guns, 

Bring autumn's ])lcasant weather ; 
The muircock springs, on whirring wings, 

Aniang the blooming heather. 
Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain. 

Delights the weary farmer ; 
And the moon shine's bright, when I rove at 
night, 

To muse upon my charmer. 

The partridge loves the fruitful fells ; 

The ])lover loves the mountains ; 
The woodcock haunts the lonely dells ; 

The soaring hern the fountains. 
Tluough lofty groves the cushat roves, 

Tlie path of man to shun it ; 
The hazel bush o'erhaugs the thrush. 

The spreading thorn the linnet. 

Thus every kind their pleasure find. 

The savage and the tender ; 
Some social join, and leagues combine ; 

Some solitary wander : 
Avauut, away ! the cruel sway. 

Tyrannic man's dominion ; 
The sportman's joy, the murdering cry. 

The flutt'ring, gory pinion. 

l>ut, Peggy dear, the evening's clear. 

Thick flies the skimming swallow ; 
The sky is blue, the fields in view. 

All fading green and yellow : , 

C'juie let us stray our gladsome way, 

And view the charms of nature ; , 

The rustling corn, the fruited thorn. 

Ami every happy creature. 

We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk, 

Till the silent moon shine clearly ; 
I'll grusp thy waist, and fondly press't. 

And swear I love thee dearly. 
Not vernal showers to budding flowers, 

Nut autunm to the farmer, 
So dear cau be as thou to me. 

My fair, my lovely charmer ! 



OF A" Tllfi AIRTS THE WIND CAN 
BLAW. 

Tunc—" Miss Admiral Gordon's Strathspey.V 

I COMPOSED this song out of compliment to 
Mrs. Burns, It was during the honey-moon. 

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, 

I dearly like the west. 
Fur there the bonnie lassie lives, 

The lass that I loe best : 
Tho' wild woods, grow, and rireH row, 

W»' mony a hill between, 



£16 



BQllNS' WORKS. 



m 



Baith day and night, my fancy's flight 
Is ever wi' my Jean, 

I see her in the dewy flow'r, 

Sae lovely, sweet, and fair ; 
I hear her voice in ilka bird, 

Wi' music charm the air : 
There's not a bonnie flower that springs, 

By fountain, shaw, or green, 
Nor yet a bonnie bird that sings, 

But minds me o* my Jean. 

Upon the banks o' flowmg Clyde 

The lasses busk them braw ; 
But when theii- best they hae put on, 

My Jeanie dings thera a' ; 
In hamely weeds she far exceeds 

The fairest o' the town ; 
Baith sage and gay confess it sae, 

Tho' drest in russet gown. 

The g:amesome lamb, that sucks its dam, 

Mair harmless canna be ; 
She has nae faut, (if sic ye ca't), 

Except her love for me : 
The sparkling dew, o' clearest hue, 

Is like her shining een ; 
In shape and air, nane can compare 

Wi' my sweet lovely Jean. 

blaw, ye westlin winds, blaw sofi 

Amang the leafy trees ; 
Wi' gentle gale, frae muir and dale, 

Bring hame the laden bees. 
And bring the lassie back to me 

That's aye sae neat and clean ; 
Ae blink o' her wad banish care, 

Sae lovely is my Jean. 

What sighs and vows amang the knowes, 

Hae past atween us twa ! 
How fain to meet, how wae to part 

That day she gaed awa ! 
The powers aboon can only ken, 

To whom the heart is seen, 
That nane can be sae dear to me 

As my sweet lovely Jean. 



O, AY MY WIFE SHE DANG ME. 

Tune—" O, ay my Wife she dang me." 

O, ay my wife she dang me, 
And aft my wife she banged me I 
If ye gie a woman a' her will, 
Gude faith, she'll soon owergang ye. 

On peace and rest my mbd was bent, 

Au«l, fool I was, I married ; 
But never honest man's intent 

A^ cursedly miscarried ! 
0, ay my wife, S^c. 



Some sair o' touifmt scill at last. 
When a' tliir days are dune, man 

My pains o' hull on eartli is past, 
I'm sure o' heaven aboon, man, 
O, ay my wift, ^-c. 



m 



O BONNIE WAS YON nOSY BRIER. 

O BOXNIE was yon rosy brier, 

That blooms s;ie fir ir:\z haunt o' man ; 
And bonni» she, and ah ! how dear ! 

It shaded frae the e'eniu' sun. 



Yon rosebuds in the morning dew 

How pure, amang the leaves sae green ; 

But purer was the lover's vow 

They witness'd in their shade yestreen. ■ 

All in its rude and prickly bower. 

That crimson rose, how sweet and fair ! 

But love is {-AT a sweeter flower 
Amid life's thorny path o' care. 

The pathless wild, and wimpling burn, 
Wi* Chloris in my arms, be mine ; 

And I the world, nor wish, nor scorn, 
Its joys and griefs alike resign. 



0, FOR ANE AND TWENTY, TAM. 

Tune—" The Moudiewort" 
An' O, for ane and twenty, Tarn I 

An hey, sweet ane and twenty, Tata/ 
ril learn my kin a rattling sang. 

An' I saw ane and twenty, Taml 

Thet snaol me sair, and baud me down, 
And gar me look like Bluntie, Tam ,' 

But three short years will soon wheel rout', 
And then comes ane and twenty. Tarn I 
An O, for, Sfc. 

A gleib o* Ian', a claut o' gear. 
Was left me by my auntie, Tam j 

At kith or kin I need na' spier. 
An' I saw ane and twenty, Tam, 
A7i' 0,for, §-c. 

They'll hae me wed a wealthy coof, 

Tho* I mysel hae plenty, Tam ; 
But^hears't thou, laddie, there's my loo^ 

I m thine at ane and twenty, Tam ' 
A7i' O,for,^c. 



m 



\ 



SONGS. 



217 



OH, GIN MY LOVE WERE YON RED 
ROSE. 

7'ttne—" Hughle Graham." 

Ol!r, gin my love were yon red rose 

That grows upon the castle wa*, 
And I mysell a drap o' dew, 

Into her bonnle breast to fa' ! 
Oh, there, beyond expression blest, 

I'd feast on beauty a' the nicbt ; 
Seated on her silk-saft faulds to rest, 

Till fleyed awa by Phoebus' licht. 

ADDITIOXAL STANZA BY BURNS. 

0, WERE my love yon lilac fair, 

Wi' purple blossoms to the spring j 
And I a bird to shelter there, 

"When wearied on my little wing ; 
How I wad mourn when it was torn 

By autumn wild, and winter rudo ! 
How I wad sing on wanton wing, 

"When youthfii' May its bloom renewed. 



OH, WERT TIIOU IN THE CAULD 
BLAST. 

Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast, 

On yonder lea, on yonder lea ; 
My plaidie to the angry airt, 

I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee : 
Or did misfortune's bitter storms 

Around thee blaw, around thee blaw, 
Thy bield should be my bosom. 

To share it a', to share it a'. 

Or were I in the wildest waste, 

Sae black and bare, sae black and bare, 
The desert were a paradise, 

If thou wert there, if thou wert there. 
Or were I monarch of the globe, 

With thee to reign, with thee to reign ; 
The brightest jewel in my crown 

Wad be my queen, wad be my queen. 



O LEAVE NOVELLES, YE MAUCHLINE 
BELLES. 

A FRAGMENT. 

Tune—" Donald Blue." 

O LEAVE novelles, ye !VIauchline belles, 
Ye're safer at your spinning wheel ; 

Such witching books are baited hooks, 
For rpldsh rooks like Rob Mossgiel. 
Sintf tal, lal, lay. 

Yonr fine Tom Jones and Grandisons, 
They make your youthful fancies reel; 



They heat your brains, and fire your veins, 
And then you're prey for Rob Mossgiel. 
Sing tal, lal, lay. 

Beware a tongue that's smoothly hung ; 

A heart that warmly seeks to feel ; 
That feeling heart but acts a part, 

'Tis rakish art in Rob Mossgiel. 
Sing tal, lal, lay. 

The frank address, the soft caress, ■ 
Are worse than poison'd darts of steel, 

The frank address, and politesse. 
Are all finesse in Rob Mossgiel. 
Sing tal, lal, lay. 



O LET ME IN THIS AE NIGHT 
Tune—" Let me in this ae night" 

LASSIE, art thou sleeping yet, 
Or art thou wakin, I would wit, 

For love has bound me hand and foot, 
And I would fain be in, jo. 

let me in this ae night, 
This ae, ae, ae night, 

For pity's sake this ae night, 
O rise and let me in, jo. 

Thou hear'st the winter wind and weet, 
Nae star blinks thro' the driving sleet, 
Tak pity on my v^-eary feet, 

And shield me frae the rain, jo. 
O let me in, §'C. 

The biUii- blast that round me blaws 
Unheeded howls, unheeded fa's ; 
The cauldriess o' thy heart's the cause 
Of a' my grief and pain, jo. 
O let me in, S^c. 

HER ANSWER. 

O TELL nae me o' wind and rain. 
Upbraid nae me wi' cauld disdain, 
Gae back the road ye cam again, 
I winna let you in, jo. 

1 tell you now this ae night, 

This ae, ae, ae night ; 
And ance for a', this ae night ; 
I winna let you in, jo. 

The Bnellest blast at mirkest hours, 
That round the pathless wand'rer pours, 
Is nought to what poor she endures 
That's trusted faithless man, jo. 
/ tell you now, Sfc. 

The sweetest flower that deck'd the mead, 
Now trodden like the vilest weed : 
Let simple maid the lesson read. 
The weird may be her ain, Joi 
/ tell you now, jT. 



48 



218 



BURNS* WOIiKS. 



The bird that charm'd hU summer-day, 
Is now the cruel fowler's prey ; 
Let witless, trustinfj woman say 
How aft her fate's the same, jo. 
/ tell you now, !fc. 



O LUVE WILL VENTURE IN. 

O LUVE will venture in, whcie it daur na weel 

be seen, 
O luve will venture in, where wisdom ance has 

been, 
But I will down yon river rove, amang the 

wood sae green, 
And a' to pu' a posie to my ain dear May. 

The primrose I will pu', the firstling o' the year, 

And I will pu' the pink, the emblem o' my dear, 

For she's the pink o' womankind, and blooms 

without a peer ; 

And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

I'll pu' the budding rose, when Phcebus peeps 

in view, 
For it's like a baumy kiss o' her sweet bonie 

mou; 
The hyacinth's for coastancy wi' its unchanging 

blue, 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair, 
And in her lovely bosom I'll place the lily there ; 
The daisy's for simplicity and unaffected air, 
And a* to be a posie to my ain dear May, 

The hawthorn I will pu', wi' its locks o' siller 

Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o' 

day. 
But the songster's nest within the bush I winna 

tak away ; 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

The woodbine I will pu', when the e'ening star 

is near, 
And the diamond draps o' dew shall be her een 

sae clear j 
The violet's for modesty which weel she fa's to 

wear ; 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

I'll tie the' posie round wi' the silken band o' 

luve. 
And I'll place it in her breast, and I'll swear by 

a* above. 
That to my latest draught o' life the band shall 

ne'er remuve, 
And this will be a posie to niy ain dear May. 



O MAY, THY MORN. 

O May, thy morn was ne'er sae •weet, 
As the mirk night o' December ; 

For sparkling was the rosy wine, 
And private was the chamber : 

And dear was she I daroa name, 
Bnt I will aye remember. 
And dear, Sfc. 

And here's to them, that like oursel, 
Can push about the jorum ; 

And here's to them that wish us weel, 
May a' that's gude watch o'er them ; 

And here's to them we darna tell. 
The dearest o' the quorum. 
And here's to, §*c. 



f J^tPftx- 



ON CESSNOCK BANKS THERE LIVES 
A LASS.* 

Tune—" If he be a butcher neat and trim." 

On Cessnock banks there lives a lass. 
Could I describe her shape and mien ; 

The graces of her weelfar'd face. 

And the glancin' of her sparklin' e'en. 

She's fresher than the morning dawn 
When rising Phoebus first is seen, 

When dewdrops twinkle o'er the lawn ; 
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en. 

She's stately like yon youthful ash. 
That grows the cowslip braes between, 

And shoots its head above each bush ; 
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en. 

She's spotless as the flow'ring thorn 

With flow'rs so white and leaves so green. 

When purest in the dewy morn ; 
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en. 

Her looks are like the sportive lamb, 
When flow'iy May adorns the scene. 

That wantons round its bleating dam ; 
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en. 

Her hair is like the curling mist 

That shades the mountain side at e'en. 

When flow'r-reviving rains are past ; 
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin* e'en. 

Her forehead's like the show'ry bow, 

When shining sunbeams intervene 
And gild the distant mountain's brow ; 

An* she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en. 



• I'dis song was an early production. *t was re. 
covered froiri the oral communication of a lady re$id- 
mg at Glasgow whom the Bard in early life affection, 
ately adroirsd. 



SONGS. 



219 



Her voice is like the ev'ning thrush 
That sings in Cessnock banks unseen, 

While his mate sits nestling in the bush ; 
An' she's tnra glancin' sparklin' e'en. 

Her lips are like the cherries ripe, 
That sunny walls from boreas screen, 

They tempt the taste and charm the sight : 
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en. 

Her teeth are like a flock of sheep, 
With fleeces newly washeu clean, 

That slowly mount the rising step ; . 
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en. 

Her breath is like the fi-agrant breeze 
That gently stirs the blossom'd bean, 

When Phcebus sinks behind the seas ; 
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en. 

But it's not her air, her form, her face, 
. Tho' matching beauty's fabled queen, 
J5ut the mind that shines in ev'ry grace 
An' chiefly in her sparklin' e'en. 



ON THE SEAS AND FAR AWAY 
Tune—" O'a the hills and far away." 

How can my poor heart be glad. 

When absent from my sailor lad ? 

How can I the thought forego, 

He's on the seas to meet his foe ! 

Let me wander, let me rove, 

Still my heart is with my love ; 

Nightly dreams and thoughts by day 

Are with him that's far away. 
On, the seas and far away, 
On stormt/ seas and far away ; 
jffightly dreams and thoughts by day, 
Are aye with him that's far away. 

When in summer's noon I faint. 
As weary flocks around me pant. 
Haply in this scorching sun 
My sailor's thund'riog at his gun : 
Bullets, spare my only joy ! 
Bullets, spare my darling boy ! 
Fate, do with me what you may, 
Spare but him that's far away ! 

On the seas and far away, jfc. 

At the starless midnight hour. 

When winter rules with boundless power, 

As the storms the forests tear. 

And thunders rend the howling air, 

Listening to the doubling roar. 

Surging on the rocky shore, 

All I can — I weep and pray ' 

For hit weal that's far away. 

0» the tefu and fax away, (^, 



Peace, thy olive wand extend, 
And bid wild war his ravage end, 
Jlan with brother man to meet. 
And as a brother kindly greet. 
Then may heaven with prosperous gales 
Fill my sailor's welcome sails, 
To my arms their charge convey. 
My dear lad that's far away. 

On the seas and far away, ^e. 



ON A BANK OF FLOWERS. 
Tune—" On a bank of flowers." 

On a bank of flowers, on a summer day, 

For summer lightly drcst, 
Tho youthful, blooming Nelly lay. 

With love and sleep opprest ; 
MTien Willie, wandering through the wood. 
Who for her favour oft had sued ; 
Ho gazed, he wished, he feared, he blushed. 

And trembled where he stood. 

Her closed eyes, like weapons sheathed. 

Were sealed in soft repose ; 
Her lips, still as she fragrant breathed, 

It richer dyed the rose. 
The springing lilie, sweetly prest. 
Wild wanton kissed her rival breast. 
He gazed, he wished, he feared, he blushed. 

His bosom ill at rest. 

Her robes, light waving in the breeze. 

Her tender limbs embrace ; 
Her lovely form, her native ease. 

All harmony and grace : 
Tumultuous tides his pids^s roll, 
A faltering ardent kiss he stole ; 
He gazed, he wished, he feared, he blnshed. 

And sighed his very soul. 

As flies the partridge from the brake, 

On fear-inspired wings ; 
So Nelly, Kt:irting, half awake^ 

Away affrighted springs ; 
But Willie followed — as he should ; 
He overtook her in the wood ; 
He vowed, he prayed, he found the maid 

Forgiving all and good ! 



OPEN THE DOOR TO ME, OH? 

Oh, open the door, some pity show. 

Oh, open the door to me, oh ! 
Though thou hast been false, I'll ever prov9 
true. 

Oh, open the door to me, oh ! 

Cauld is the blast upon my pale cheek. 
But caujder thy love for jne, oh ! 



BURNS' WORKS. 



The frost that freezes the life at my heart, 
Is nought to my pains frae thee, oh ! 

The wan moon is setting behind the white wave, 
And time is setting witli me, oh ! 

False friends, false love, farewell ! for malr 
I'll ne'er tiouble them nor tliee, oh ! 

She has opcn'd the dof)r, she has opened it wide. 
She sees his pale corse on the plain, oh ! 

My true love, she cried, and sunk down by his 
side. 
Never to rise again, oh ! 



O PHILLY, HAPPY BE THAT DAY. 

Tune—" The sow's tail." 



O Philly, happy be that day 
When roving through the gather'd hay, 
My youthfu' heart was stown away. 
And by thy charms, my Philly. 

SHE. 

O Willie, aye I bless the grove 
Where first I own'd my maiden love, 
■Whilst thou didst pledge the powers above, 
To be my ain dear Willie. 



As songsters of the early year 
Are ilka day mair sweet to liear. 
So ilka day to me mair dear 
And charming is my Philly. 



As on the brier the budding rose 
Still richer breathes and fairer blows, 
So in my tender bosom grows 
The love I beai- my Willie. 



The milder sun and bluer sky, 
That crown my harvest cares wi' joy, 
Were ne'er sae welcome to my eye 
As is a sight of PluUy. 



The little swallow's wanton wing, 
Tho' wafting o'er the flowery spring, 
Did ne'er to me sic tidings bring. 
As naeeting o* my Willie. 



The bee, that thro' the sunny hour 
Sips nectar in the opening flower, 
Compar'd wi' my delight is poor, 
Upon the lips o' Philly. 



The woodbine in the dewy weet 
When evening sliades in silence meet, 



Is nocht sae fragrant or sae iwMt 
As is a kiss o' Willie. 



Let fortune's wheel at random rin, 
And fools may tyne, and knaves may wis ; 
My thoughts are a' bound upon ane, 
And that's my ain dear Philly. 



WTiat's a' the joys that gowd can gie ? 
I care nae wealth a single flie ; 
The lad I love's the lad for me, 
And that's my ain dear Willie. 



O STAY, SWEET WARBLING WOOD-' 
LARK. 

l^ne—" Loch. Enoch side." 

O STAY, sweet warbling wood-lark, stay, 
Nor quit for me the trembling spray ! 
A hapless lover courts thy lay. 

Thy soothing fond complaining. 
Again, again that tender part, 
That I may catch thy melting art ; 
For surely that wad touch her heart, 

Wha. kills me wi' disdaining. 

Say, was thy little mate unkind. 
And heard thee as the careless wind ? 
Oh, nocht but love and sorrow join'd. 

Sic notes of woe could wauken. 
Tliou tells o' never-ending care, 
O' speechless grief and dark despair ; 
For pity's sake, sweet bird, nae mair I 

Or my poor heart is broken ! 



O WAT YE WHA'S IN YON TOUN. 
Tune—" I'll gang nae mair to yon tonn." 

O WAT ye wha's in yon toun 

Ye see the e'ening sun upon ? 
The fairest maid's in yon toun, 

That e'eniug sun is shining on. 
Now haply down )on gay green shaw, 

She wandeis by yon spreading tree ; 
How blest, ye flow'rs, that round her blaw ! 

Ye catch the glances o' her ee. 
How blest, ye birds, that round her sing, 

And welcome in the blooming year ! 
And doubly welcome be the spring, 

The season to my Jeanie deal' ! 

The sun blinks blythe on yon toun, 
Amang yon broomy braes sae greeo % 

But my delight, in yon toun, 

And dearest pleasure, is my Jean. 

Without my love, not a' the charms 
Of Paradise could yield me joy ; 



SONGS. 



SSI 



But gie me udau.e in my arms, 

And welcome Lapland's drearl'e sky. 

My cave wad be a lover's bower, 
Though raging winter rent tue air ; 

And she a lovely little flower, 
That I wad tent and shelter there. 

O sweet is she in yon toun, 

The sinking sun's gane down upon ; 
Ths dearest maid's in yon toun. 

His setting beam e'er shone upon. 
If angry fate be sworn my foe, 

And suffering I am doom'd to bear, 
I'll careless quit aught else below ; 

But spare, oh ! spare mo Jeanie dear. 
For, while life's dearest blood runs warm, 

My thoughts frae her shall ne'er depart ; 
For, as most lovely is lier form. 

She has the truest, kindest heart. 



O WERE I ON PARNASSUS' HILL. 

This air is Oswald's : the song I made out 
of compliment to Mrs. Burns. 

were I on Parnassus' hill, 
Or had o' Helicon my fill ; 
That I might catch poetic skill. 
To sing how dear I love thee. 
But Nith maun be my Bluse's well. 
My Muse maun be thy bonnie sell ; 
Ou Corsincon I'll glow'r and spell, 

And write how dear I love thee. 

Then come, sweet Muse, inspire my lay ! 
For a' the lee-lang simmer's day, 

1 coudna sing, I coudna say. 
How much, how dear, I love thee. 
I see thee dancing o'er the green. 
Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean, 
Thy tempting lips, thy roguish ecn — 

By heaven and earth I love thee .' 

By night, by day, a-field, at hame, 
The thoughts o' thee my breast inflame ; 
And ay I muse and sing thy name, 
I only live to love thee ! 
Tho' I were doom'd to wander on, 
Beyond the sea, beyond the sun, 
'Till my last weary sand was run ; 
'Till then, and tlieu I love thee ! 



As dews o' simmer weeping, 
In tears the rose-bud steeping : 
O that's tite lassie o' my heart, 

My lassie ever dearer ; 
O that's the queen o' womankind, 
And ne'er, a ane to peer her. 

If thou shalt meet a lassie 

In grace and beauty charming. 

That e'en thy chosen lassie, 

Erewhilf thy breast sae warming, 
Had ne'er sic powers alarming ; 
O that's, .<v. 

If thou hadst heard her talking, 
.And thy attentions plighted. 

That ilka body talking, 

But her by thee is slighted ; 
And if thou art dili':;hted j 
O that's, §T. 

If thou hast met this fair one, 
When frae her thou hast parted ; 

If every other fair one 

But her, thou hast deserted. 
And thou art broken-hearted ; 
O that's, Sfc. 



WHA IS SHE THAT LOES ME. 

Tune—" Morag." 

O WHA is she that loes mc. 

And has my heart a-keeping ? 
O sweet h she that loes me, 



OUT OVER THE FORTH I LOOK TO 
THE NORTH. 

Out over the Forth I look to the north. 

But what is the north and its Highlands to me ? 

The south nor the east gie ease to my breast, 
The far foreign land, or the wild rolling sea. 

But I look to the west, when I gae to rest. 
That happy my dreams and my slumbers may 
be; 

For far in the west lives he I lo'e best. 
The lad that is dear to my babie and me. 



PEGGY ALISON. 

Ilk care and fear, when thou art near, 

I ever mair defy them ; 
Young kings upon their hansel throne 
Are no sae blest as I am ! 
I'll kiss thee yet, yet, 

AtC Til hiss thee o'er again. 
An' Til kiss thee yet, yet, 
My bonnie Feggy Alison, - 

When in my arms, wi' a' thy charmi^ 
I clasp my countless treasure, 

I seek nae maIr o' Heaven tu share, 
Than sic a moment's pleasure i 
TU hiss, ifc. 



»2« 

And by thy een, sae bonnie blue, 
I twear I'm thine for evsr ; 

And oa thy lips I seal my vow, 

And break it shall I never ! 

ril kiss, &x. 



BURNS' WORKS. 



POWERS CELESTIAL. 

Powers celestial, whose protectiou 

Ever guards the virtuous fair, 
While in distant climes I wander, 

Let my Mary be your care : 
Let her form sae fair and faultless, 

Fair and faultless as your own ; 
Let my Mary's kindred spirit. 

Draw your choicest influence dov/n. 
Make the gules you waft around her. 

Soft and peaceful as her breast ; 
Breathing in the breeze that fans her. 

Sooth her bosom into rest : 
Guardian angels, O protect her. 

When in distant lands I roam ; 
To realms unknown while fate exiles me. 

Make her bosom still my home. * 



PHILLIS THE FAIR. 
Tune—" Robin Adair." 

While larks with little wing 

Fanned the pure air. 
Tasting the breathing sprint^. 

Forth I did fare ; 
Gay the sun's golden eye 
Peeped o'er the mountains high : 
Such thy morn ! did I cry, 

Phillis the fair. 

In each bird's careless song 

Glad I did sliare, 
While yon wild flowers among, 

Chance led me there : 
Sweet to the opening day, 
Rosebuds bent the dewy spray • 
Such thy bloom ! did I any, 

Phillis the fair. 

Down in a shady walk. 

Doves cooing were ; 
I marked the cruel hawk 

Caught in a snare ; 
So kind may fortune be ! 
Such make his destiny. 
He who wauld injure thee, 

Phillis the fair ! 



• Probably written on Highland Mary, on the eve 
Of the Poet's departure for the West Indies. 



PUIRTITH CAULD. 

Tune—" I had a horse." 



O, PUIRTITH cauld, and restless love, 

Ye wreck my peace between ye ; 
Yet puirtith a' I could forgie. 
An 'twere na for my Jeanie. 

O, why should fate sic pleasure have. 

Life's dearest bands untwining ? 
Or why sae siveet a Jlower as love 
Depend on Fortune's shining ? 

This world's wealth when I think on, 

Its pride, and a' the lave o't ; 
Fie, fie on silly coward man, 

That he should be the slave o't, i 

O, why should fate, §-c. 

Her een, sae bonnie blue, betray 

How she repays my passion ; 
But prudence is her owerword ave, 

She talks of rank and fashion.' 

O, why should fate, Sfc. 

O, wha can prudence think upon 

And sic a lassie by him ? 
O, wha can prudence think upon, 

And sae in love as I am ? 

O, why should fate, S^c. 

How blest the humble cottar's lot ! 

He woos his simple dearie ; 
The sillie bogles, wealth and state, 

Can never make them eerie. 

O, why should fate, §-c. 



RATTLIN, ROARIN WILLIE. 

The last stanza of this song is mine; it was 
composed out of compliment to one of the wor- 
thiest fellows in the world, William Dunbar, 
Esq. Writer to the signet, Edinburgh, and Co- 
lonel of the Crochallan corps, a club of wits 
who took that title at the time of raising the 
fencible regiments. 

RATTLiK, roarin Willie, 

O he held to the fair. 
An' for to sell his fiddle, 

And buy some ither ware ; 
But parting wi' his fiddle, 

The B.iut tear blint his ee ; 
And rattliu roarin Willie, 

Ye're welcome hame to roe. 

O Willie, come sell your fiddle, 

O sell your fiddle sae fine ; 
O wiljie come sell your fiddle, 

And buy a pint o' wine. 
If I should sell my fiddle. 

The warl' wou'd think I was mad. 
For many a rantiu day 

My fiddle and I hae had ! 



SONGS. 



ns 



RAVING WINDS AROUND HER . 
BLOWING. 

I COMPOSED these verses on Miss Isabella 
M'Leod of Raza, alluding to her feelings on the 
death of her sister, and the still more melancholy 
death of her sister's husband, the late Earl of 
Loudon. 

Tune-'" M'Grigor of Roro's Lament." 

Ravino winds around her blowing, 
Yellow leaves the woodlands strewing. 
By a river hoarsely roaring, 
lubella stray'd deploring. 
Farewell hours, that late did measure 
Sunshine days of joy and pleasure ; 
Hail ! thou gloomy night of sorrow, 
Cheeriest night that knows no morrow ! 

O'er the Past too fondly pondering. 
On the hopeless Future wandering ; 
Chilly grief ray life-blood freezes, 
Fell despair my fancy seizes. 
Life, thou soul ef eveiy blessing. 
Load to misery most distressing ; 
Gladly how would I resign thee, 
And to dark oblivion join thee ! 



SAW YE OUGHT O' CAPTAIN GROSE. 
Tune—" Sir John Malcolm," 

KiM ye ought o* Captain Grose ? 

Igo and ago, 
If he's among his friends or foes ? 

Iram, coram, dago. 

Is he South, or is he North f 

Igo, and ago, 
Or drowned in the river Forth ? 

Iram, coram, dago. 

Is he slain by Highland bodies ? 

Igo, and ago. 
And eaten like a wether-haggis ? 

Iram, coram, dago. 

Is he to Abram's bosom gane ? 

Igo, and ago, 
Or handin' Sarah by the wame ? 

Iram, coram, dago. 

Where'er he be, the Lord be near him ; 

Igo, and ago. 
As for the deil he daur na steer him, 

Iram, coram, dago. 

But please transmit th' inclosed letter, 

Igo, and ago, 
Which will oblige your humble debtor, 

Iram, coram, dago. 



So may you have auld stanes in store, 

Igo, and ago, 
The very stanes that Adam bore, 

Iram, coram, dago. 

So may ye get in glad possession, 

Igo, and ago, 
The coins o' Satan's coronation ! 

Iram, coram, dago. 



SCROGGAM. 

There was a wife wonned in Cockpen, 

Scroggam ; 
She brewed gude ale for gentlemen : 

Sing, auld Cowl, lay ye down by me ; 

Scroggam, my dearie, RuiFum. 

The gudewife's dochter fell in a fever, 

Scroggam ; 
The priest o' the parish fell in another : 

Sing, auld Cowl, lay ye down by me ; 

Scroggam, my dearie, Ruffum. 

They laid the twa in the bed thegither, 

Scroggam, 
That the heat o' the tana might cool the tother 1 

Sing, auld Cowl, lay ye down by me ; 

Scroggam, ray dearie, Ruffum. 



SHE'S FAIR AND PAUSE. 
Tun*—" She's fair and fause." 

She's fair and fause that causes my smart, 

I loo'd her mickle and lang ; 
She's broken her vow, she's broken my faeart| 

And I may e'en gae hang. 
A cuif cam in wi' rowth o' gear. 
And I hae tint my dearest dear ; 
But woman is but warld's gear, 

Sae let the bonnie lass gang. 

Whae'er ye be that woman love. 

To this be never blind, 
Nae ferlie 'tis though fickle she prove ; 

A woman has't by kind : 
O woman, lovely woman fair ! 
An angel's form's faun to thy share, 
'Twad been ower mickle to hae gi'en thee mair 

I mean an angel mind. 



SHE SAYS SHE LO'ES ME BEST 
OF A'. 

Tune—" Onagh's Water-fall." 

Sae flaxen were her ringlets. 
Her eyebrows of a darker hue, 



m 



BURNS' WORKS." 



Bewitchingly o'er-arching 

Twa laughing een o' bonnie blue. 
Her smiling sae wyling, 

Wad make a wretch forgot bis woe ; 
What pleasure, what treasure, 

Unto these rosy lips to grow ; 
Such was my Chloris' bonnie face. 

When first her bonnie face I saw, 
And aye my Chloris' dearest charm, 

She says she lo'cs me best of a'. 

Like harmony her motion : 

Her pretty ancle is a spy 
Betraying fair proportion,. 

Wad make a saint forget the sky. 
Sae warming, sae charming, 

Her faultless form and graceful air ; 
Ilk feature — auld Nature 

Declar'd that she could do nae mair : 
Hers are the willing chains o' love, 

By conquering beauty's sovereign law : 
And aye my Chloris' dearest charm, 

She says she lo'es me best of a'. 

Let others love the city. 

And gaudy show at sunny noon j 
Gie me the lonely valley, 

The dewy eve, and rising moon. 
Fair beaming and streaming. 

Her silver light the boughs amang ; 
While falling, recalling, 

The amorous thrush concludes his sang 
There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove 

By wimpling burn and leafy shaw. 
And hear my vows o' truth and love, 

And say thou lo'es me best of a'. 



SIC A WIFE AS WILLIE HAD. 
Tune—" Tibby Fowler." 

Willie W.astle dwalt on Tweed, 

The place they ca'd it Linkumdoddie. 
Willie was a v\'abster gude, 

Could stown a clew wi' onie bodle. 
He had a wife was donr and din, 

O, Tinkler Madgie was her mother : 
Sic a wife as Willie had, 

I wadna gie a button for her ! 

She has an ee, she has but ane. 

The cat has twa the very colour ; 
Twa rustie teeth, forbye a stump, 

A clapper tongue wad deave a miller ; 
A whiskin' beard about her mou' ; 

Her nose and chin they threitcu ithcr : 
Sic a wife as Willie hud, 

I wadna gie a button for her ! 

She's bow-hough'd, she's hein-shinn'd, 
Ae limpia' leg a hand-bread shorter ; 

She's twisted richt, she's twisted left. 
To balance fair in ilka onn. :, i- : 



She has a hump upon lier breast, 
The twin o' that upon her shouther : 

Sic s. wife as Willie had, 

I wadna gie a button for her ! 

Auld baudrons* by the ingle sits, 

And wi' her loof her face a-washin' ; 
But Willio's wife is nae sae trig. 

She dichts her grunyief wi' a hushion.^ 
Her walie neeves, || like midden creels ; 

Her fiice wad fyle the Logan Water : 
Sic a wife as Willie had, 

I wadna gie a button for her ! 



STEER HER UP AND HAUD HER 

GAUN. 

T^ne—" Steer her up." 

O STSEE her up and baud her gaun ; 

Her mother's at the mill, jo ; 
And gin she winna tak a man. 

E'en let her tak her will, jo. 

First shore her wi' a kindly kiss, 

And ca' another gill, jo ; 
And gin she tak the thing amiss, 

E'en let her flyte her fill, jo. 

O steer her up, and be na blate ; 

And gin she tak it ill, jo. 
Then lea' the lassie to her fate. 

And time nae langer spill, jo. 

Ne'er break your heart for ae rebut, 

But think upon it still, jo. 
That gin the lassie winna do't, 

Ye'U find another will, jo. 



SWEET FA'S THE EVE ON CRAIGIE- 

EURN. 

Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-burn, 

And biythe awakes the morrow, 
But a' the priHe o' spring's return 

Can yield me nocht but sorrow. 

I see the flowers and spreading trees, 

I hear the wild birds singing ; 
But what a weary Avight can please. 

And care his bosom wringing ? 

Fain, fain would I my griefs impart, 

Yet dare na for your anger ; 
But secret love will breiik my heart, 

If I conceal it langer. 

If thou refuse to pity me, 
If thou shalt love anither. 



» The cat. f Mouth. t Cushion, || Fbto, 



SONGS. 



sss 



When yon gre€u leaves fade ft ae the tree, 
Around my grave they'll wither.* 



TAM GLEN. 

Mr heart is a-breaking, dear tittie, 
Some counsel unto me come len , 

To anger them a* is a pity, 
But what will I do wi' Tain Glen ? 

I'm thinking, wi' sic a braw fellow, 
In poortith I might mak a fen : 

What care I in riches to wallow. 
If I maunna marry Tarn Glen. 

There's Lowrie the laird o' Dumeller, 

" Gude day to you, brute," he comes ben 

He brags and he blaws o' his siller, 

But when will he dance like Tarn Glen ?■ 

My minnie does constantly deave me, 

And bids me beware o' young men ; / 

They flatter, she says, to deceive me. 
But wha can think sae o' Tara Glen ? 

My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him. 
He'll gie me gude bunder marks ten : 

But, if it's ordaiu'd I maun tak him, 
O wha will I get like Tarn Glen ? 

Yestreen at the Valentine's dealing, 
My heart to ray mou gied a sten ; 

For thrice I drew ane without failing. 
And thrice it was written Tam Glen. 

The last Hallowe'en I was waukin 
My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken ; 

His hkeness cam up the house staukin. 
And the very grey breeks o' Tam Glen ! 

Come counsel, dear tittie, don't tarry ; 

I'll gie you my bonoie black hen, 
Qin ye will advise me to marry 

The lad I lo'e dearly, Tam Glen. 



I But my white pow, oae kindly thow* 

Shall melt the snaws of age ; 
My trunk of eild, but buss or beild, 

Sinks in time's wintry rage. 
Oh, age has weary days. 

And nights o' sleepless pain ! 
Thou golden time o' youthfu' prime, 

Why comest thou not again ! 



THE BANKS O* DOON. 



THE AULD MA f. 

But lately seen in gladsome green 

The woods rejoiced the day. 
Thro' gentle showers the laughing flowers 

In double pride were gay : 
But now our joys are fled, 

On winter blasts awa ! 
Yet maiden May, in rich array, 

Again shall bring them a'. 



■^ 



Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, 

How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ; 
How can ye chant ye little birds, 

And I sae weary fu' o* care ! 
Thou'U break my heart thou warbling bird. 

That wantons thro' the flowering thorn : 
Thou minds me o' departed joys. 

Departed never to return. 

Oft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon, 

To see the rose and woodbine twine ; 
And ilka bird sang o' its luve. 

And, fondly, sae did I o' mine. 
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 

Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree ; 
And my fause lover stole my rose. 

But ah ! he left the thorn wi' ma. 



• Cragie-burn wood is situated on the banks of the 
liver Moilat, ;uid about three miles distant from the 
village of that naine, celebrated for its medicinal wa^ 
ters. The woods of Cragie-burn, and of Dumcricf, 
were at one time favourite haunts of our poet. It was 
there he met the " Lassie wi' the linuwhite locks," 
luid that he conceived several of his beautiful lyrics. 



THE BANKS BY QASTLE- GORDON 

Tune—" Morag." 

Streams that glide in orient plains 
Never bound by winter's chains ; 
Glowing here on golden sands, 
There commix'd with foulest stains 
From tyranny's empurpled bands : 
These, their richly gleaming waves, 
I leave to tyrants and their slaves ; 
Give me the stream that sweetly lares 
The banks by Castle- Gordon. 

Spicy forests ever gay. 
Shading from the burning ray 
Hapless wretches sold to toil, 
Or the ruthless native's way. 
Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil 
Woods that ever verdant wave, 
I leave the tyrant and the slave. 
Give me the groves that lofty brave 
The storms, by Castle -Gordon. 

Wildly here, without control. 
Nature reigns and rules the whole ; 
In that sober pensive mood. 
Dearest to the feeling soul. 
She plants the forest, pours the flood, 
Life's poor day I'll muising rave, 

49 



226 



BTTRNB' WORKS. 



And find ftt t)5g1it a sTielteriHg cavo, 
Where waters &ow and wild woods w.ivp. 
By boiinic Castle-Gordon. 



And art thou come," and art lliou true 
O welcome dear to love and me ! 

And let us all our vows renew, 
AlonsT the flowsry banks of Cree. 



THE BANKS OF THE DEVON. 

Tune—-" Rhannerach dhon na chri." 

These verses were composed on a charming 
girl, a Miss Chailotte Hamilton, who is now 
married to James M'Kitrick Adair, Esq. phy- 
sician. She is sister to my worthy friend, Ga- 
vin Hamilton, of Mauchline ; and was born on 
the banks of Ayr, but was, at the time I wrote 
these lines, residing at Hcrveyston, in Clack- 
mannanshire, on the romantic banks of the little 

river Devon I first heard the air from a lady 

in Inverness, and got the notes taken down for 
this work. 

How pleasant the banks of the clear winding 
Devon, 
With green spreading bushes and flow'rs 
blooming fair ! 
But the bonniest flow'r on tbe banks of tbe De- 
von, 
Was once a sweet bud on tbe braes of the 
Ayr: 
I^Iild be the sun on this sweet-blushing floxp'r, 

la the g:iy rosy morn as it bathes in the dew j 
And gentle the fall of the soft vernal show'r, 
That steals on the evening each leaf to renew ! 

O spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes, 

With chill, hoary -wing as ye usher the dawn ! 
And far be thou ilistant, thou reptile that seizest, 

The verilure and pride of the garden or lawn ! 
Let Bonvlmn cxiilt in his gay gilded lilies, 

And Enj!;land triumphant display her proud 
ro<;e ; 
A fairer than either adorns the green vallies, 

Where Devon, swort Devon, meandering 
flow'. 



THE BARD'S SONG. 

THE baud's song in "the JOLLT BEOflARS- 

Tune—" Jolly mortala, fill your glasses." 

See the smoking bowl before us, 
Mark our jovial ragged ring ! 
Round and round take up the chorus, 
And in raptures let us sing — 
yi Jig for those by law protected. 

Liberty's a glorious feast ! 
Courts for cowards were erected, 
Churches built to please the priest. 

What is title what is treasure. 

What is reputation's care ? 
If we lead a life of pleasure, 

'Tis no matter how or where. 

A fig for those, §-c. . 

Life is all a variorum. 

We regard not how it goes ; 
Let them cant about decorum. 

Who have characters to lose. 
A fig for those, §'c. 

Here's to budgets, bags, and wallets ! 

Here's to all our wandering train ! 
Here's our ragged brats and callets ! 

One and all cry out. Amen ! 
' A fig for those, S^c. 



! THE BANKS OF CREE. 

Tune — " The banks of Cree." 

Here is the glen, and hero the bower. 
All underneath the birchen shade ; 

The village hell has toU'd the hour, 
O, wliat can stay my hvdy mnid ? 

Tis not Maria's whispering call, 

Tis but the balmy breathing gale, 
Mixt with some warbler's dying fill. 
The dewy star of eve to hail. 

It 18 Maria's voice I hear ! 

So calls the woodlark to the "rovp. 
His little faithful mate to cheer, ■ 

At once 'tis music — and 'ti« lovi-. 



THE BATTLE OF SHERIFF-MUIR, 

BETWEEN THE DUKE OP ARGTLE AND THK 
EARL OF MAR, 

" O CAM ye here the fight to shun, 
Or herd the sheep wi' me, man ? 
Or were ye at the Sherra-rauir, 

And did the battle see, man ?" 
Isaw the battle sair, and teugh, 
And reekin-red ran monie a sheugh. 
My heart for fear gae sough for sough. 
To hear the thuds, and see the cluds 
O' clans frae woods, in tartan duds, 
Wha glaum'd at kingdoms three, man. 

The red-coat lads wi' black cockades, 
To meet them were na slaw, man ; 

They rusji'd and push'd, and bluid outgush'd, 
And mony a bouk did fa', man : 

The great Argyle led on his files, 

I wat they glanced twenty miles ! 



SONGS. 



S«7 



They hack'd ana hashM, while broadiwordB 

clash'd, 
And thro' they dash'd, and hew'd and smasVd, 
Till fey men died awa, man. 

But had you seen the phillbegs, 

And skyrin tartan trews, man, 
When in the teeth they dar'd our whigs, 

And covenant true blues, man ; 
In lines extended lang and large, 
When bayonets opposed the targe. 
And thousands hastened to the charge, 
Wi' highland wrath they frae the sheath. 
Drew blades o' death, till out o' breath. 

They fled like frighted doos, man. 

" O how dell Tarn can that be true ? 

The chase gaed frae the north, man ; 
I saw myself, they did pursue 

The horsemen back to Forth, man ; 
And at Dumblane, in my ain sight. 
They took the biig wi' a' their might, 
And straught to Stirling winged their flight ; 
But, cursed lot ! the gates were shut; 
And mony a hunted poor red-coat 
, For fear amaist did swarf, man." 

My sister Kate came up the gate 

Wi' crowdie unto me, man : 
She swoor she saw some rebels run, 

Frae Perth unto Dundee, man ; 
Their left-hand general had nae skill, 
The Angus lads had nae good will 
That day their neebor's blood to spill ; 
For fear by foes, that they should lose 
Their cogs o' brose ; all crying woes, 

And so it goe^, you see, man. 

They've lost some gallant gentlemen, 
Amang the Highland clans, man ; 
j I fear my Lord Panmure is slain. 

Or fallen in whiggish hands, man. 

Now wad ye sing this double fight, 

Some fell for wrang, and some for right ; 

But mony bade the world gude-night ; 

Then ye may tell, how pell and mell, 

By red claymores, and muskets, knell, 

Wi' dying yell, the tories fell, 

And whigs to hell did flee, man.* 



THE BIRKS OF ABERFELDY. 

I COMPOSED these stanzas standing under the 
Falls of Aberfeldy, at or near Moness. 

Tune—" The Birks of Abergeldy." 

JBonnie lassie, will ye go, will ye go, will ye go, 
JBonnie lassie, will ye go, to the JBirks of Aber- 
feldy? 



Now simmer blinks on flowery brM«, 

And o'er the crystal streamlets plays ; 

Come, let us spend the lichtsorae days 

In the Birks of Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie lassie, t^c. 

While o'er their head the hazels hing, 

The little birdies blythely sing. 

Or lichtly flit on wanton wing. 

In the Birks of Aberfeldy. 

Sonnie lassie, ifc. 

The braes ascend like lofty wa's, 
The foamin' stream deep-roaring fa's, 
O'erhung wi' fragrant spreadin' shaws. 
The Birks of Aberfeldy. 
Bonnie lassie, Sfc. 

The hoary clifis are crown'd wi' flow'rs. 
White ower tlie lin the burnie pours. 
And, risin', weets wi' misty show'rs 
The Birks of Aberfeldy. 
Bonnie lassie, §"c. 

Let fortune's gifts at random flee, 
They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me. 
Supremely bless'd wi' love and thee. 
In the Birks of Aberfeldy.* 
Bonnie lassie, S^c. 



THE BIG-BELLIED BOTTLE. 

Tvnf—" Prepare, my dear Brethren, to the Tavern 
let's fly," 

No churchman am I, for to rail and to write ; 
No statesman or soldier, to plot or to fight ; 
No sly man of business, contriving a snare ; 
For a big-bellied bottle's the whole of my care. 

The peer I don't envy — I give him his bow ; 
I scorn not the peasant, though ever so low ; 
But a club of good fellows, like those that are 

here. 
And a bottle like this, are my glory and care. 

Here passes the squire on his brother— his 

horse ; 
There centum -per-centum, the cit with his 

purse ; 
But see you ' the Crown,' how it waves ia the 

air ! 
There a big-bellied bottle still eases my care. 



• This was written about the time our bard made 
his tour to the Highlands, 1787. 



• The chorus is borrowed from an old simple bal- 
lad, called " The Birks of Abergeldy ;" of which the 
following is a fragment. 

Bonnie lassie, will ye go. 
Will ye go, will ye go, 
Bonnie lassie, will ye go 
To the birks o' Abergeldie ? 
Ye shall get a gown o' silk, 
A gown o silk, a gown o' silk. 
Yc shall get a gown o' silk. 
And coat of calliroankic. 



SS8 



BURNS' WORKS. 



The wife ot my bosom, alas ! she did die ; 
For sweet consolation to church I did fly | 
I found that old Solomon proved it fair, 
That a big-bellied bottle's a cure for all care. 

I once was persuaded a venture to make ; 
A letter inform'd me that all was to wreck ; 
But the pursy old landlord just waddled up 

stairs, 
With a glorious bottle, that ended my cares. 

" Life's cares they are comforts," • a maxim 

laid down 
By the bard, what d'ye call him, that wore the 

black gown ; 
And faith I agree with th' old prig to a hair, 
For a big-bellied bottle's a heaven of care. 

STANZA ADDZD IN A MASON LODGE. 

Then fill up a bumper, and make it o'erflow. 
And honours masonic prepare for to throw ; 
May every true brother of the compass and 

square 
Hare a big-bellied bottle when harass'd with 

care. 



THE BLUE-EYED LASSIE. 

I GAED a waefvi' gate yestreen, 

A gate, I fear, I'll dearly rue ; 
I gat my death frae twa sweet een, 

*Twa lovely een o' bonnie blue. 
'Twas not her golden ringlets bright ; 

Her lips like roses, wat wi' dew. 
Her heaving bosom, lily-white — 

It was her e'en sae bonnie blue. 

She talk'd, she smiled, my heart she wyl'd. 
She charm'd my soul I wist na how ; 

And aye the stound, the deadly wound, 
Cam frae her een sae bonnie blue. 

But spare to speak, and spare to speed ; 
She'll aiblins listen to my vow : 

Should she refuse, I'll lay my dead 

, To her twa een sae bonnie blue.f 



THE BONNIE WEE THING. 

Composed on my little idol, '* The charm- 
ing, lovely Davies." 

Sonnle ivee thing, cannie teee thing. 
Lovely wee thing was thou mine ; 



I wad toecar thee in my hcuMt 
Lest mi/ jewel I ihould tint. 

Wishfully I look and languish^ 
In that bonnie face of thine ; 

And my heart it stoundg wi' angoiah, 

Lest my wee thing be na mine. 

Bonnie wee thing, ^e. 

Wit, and grace, and love, and beauty. 

In ae constellation shine ; 
To adore thee is my duty. 

Goddess o' this soul o' mine ! 
Bonnie wee thing, l^e. 



THE BRAES O' BALLOCHMYLE. 

The Catriue woods were yellow leen, 

The flowers decayed on Catrine lee, • 
Nae lav'rock sang on hillock green. 

But nature sicken'd on the ee. 
Thro* faded groves Maria sang, 

Hersel' in beauty's bloom the while. 
And aye the wild wood echoes rang, 

Fareweel the braes o' Ballochmyle. 

Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers. 

Again ye'll flourish fresh and fair ; 
Ye birdies dumb, in withering bowers. 

Again ye'll charm the vocal air. 
But here, alas ! for me nae mair, 

Shall birdie charm, or floweret smile ; 
Fareweel the bonnie banks of Ayr, 

Fareweel, fareweel ! sweet Ballochmyl* ! 



• Young's Night Thought*. 

t The heroine of this song was Miss J. of Lochma- 
ben. This lady, now Mrs. R. after residing some time 
in Liverpool, it settled with her hufhand in New York, 
North America. 



THE CARL OF KELLYBURN BRAES. 

These words are mine ; I composed them 
from the old traditionary verses. 

There lived a carl on Kellybum braes, 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) 
And he had a wife was the plague o' his days ; { 
And the thyme it is wither'd and the rue is I 
in prime. 

i 

Ae day as the carl gaed up the lang glen, f| 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) | 

He met wi' the devil ; says, " How do yow fen?" | 
And the thyme it is wither'd and the rue is 
in prime. 

" I've got a bad wife, Sir; that's a* my com- I 
plaint ; ^ 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) 



- 



• Catrine, in Ayrshire, the seat of Dugald Stewart, 
Esq. Professor of Moral Philosophy in the Unirenity 
of Edinburgh. Ballochmyle, formerly the seat of Sir 
John Whitefoord, now of -— Alexander, Esq. (UOO. < 



SONGS. 



229 



Tor, mirimg four priMnca, to her ye're a saint ; 
Aad the thjrme it is wither'd aad the rue is 
in prime." 

'** It's neither your atot nor your staig I shall 
I crave, 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) 
But gie me your wife, man, for her I must have. 
And the thyme it is wither'd and the rue is 
in prime." 

*' O welcome, most kindly," the blythe carl said, 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi* thyme) 

IBat if ye can match her, ye're war nor ye're ca'd. 
And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is 

. in prime." 

'The devil has got the auld wife on his back ; 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) 
And, like a poor pedlar, he's carried his pack ; 

And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is 
in prime. 

nHc's carried her hame to his ain hallan-door ; 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) 
Syne bade her gae in, for a bitch and a whore. 

And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is 
in prime. 

; Then straight he makes fifty, the pick o' his 
I band, 

I (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) 
jTnrn out on her gaurd in the clap of a hand ; 

I' And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is 
prime. 

iThe carlin gaed thro' them like ony wude bear, 
' (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) 
[Whae'er she gat hands on came near her nae 

mair ; 
I ' And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is 

in prime. 

I " A reekit wee devil looks over the wa' ; 
I (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) 
O, help, maiiter, help, or she'll ruin us a', 
And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is 
in prime." 

The devil he swore by the edge o' his knife, 
I (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) 
me pitied the man that was tied to a wife ; 
\ And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is 
I in prime. 

rhe devil he swore by the kirk and the bell, 
I (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) 
I He was not in wedlock, thank heaven, but in 
, hell ; 

And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is 
in prime. 



And to her auld husband he's carried her back ; 
And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is 
in prime. 

" I hae been a devil the feck o' my life ; 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) 
But ne'er was in hell, till I met wi' a wife ; 

And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue ii 
in prime. 



THE CHEVALIER'S LAMENT. 

Tune—" Captain O' Kaine." 

The small birds rejoice in the green learea re- 
turning ; 
The murmuring streamlet runa clear through 
the vale ; 
The hawthorn trees blow in the dews of the 
morning ; 
And wild scattered cowslips bedeck the green 
dale. 
But what can give pleasure, or what can seem 

fair. 
When the lingerin' moments are numbend by 
care? 
No flowers gaily springing, 
Or birds sweetly singing, 
Can sooth the sad bosom of joyless despair. 

The deed that I dared, could it merit their ma- 
lice — 
A king and a father to place on his throne ! 
His right are these hills, and his right are these 
valleys, 
Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I cu 
find none. 
But 'tis not my sufierings, thus wretched, for- 
lorn ; 
My brave gallant friends, 'tis your ruin I moonii 
Your deeds proved so loyal 
In hot bloody trial ; 
Alas ! can I make.it no better petum ! 



\ 

' rhcn Satan has travelled again wi' his pack ; 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) 



THE DAY RETURNS, MY BOSOM 
BURNS. 

J^ne—" Seventh of November." 

The day returns, my bosom burns, 

The blissful day we twa did meet, 
Tho' winter wild in tempest toil'd. 

Ne'er summer sun was half sae sweet ; 
Than a' the pride that loads the tide, 

And crosses o'er the sultry line ; 
Than kingly robes, than crowns and globei. 

Heaven gave me more, it made thee mine. 



While day and night can bring delight 
Or nature ought of pleaaure give i^ 



230 



BURNS* WORKS. 



While joys above, my mind can move, 
For thee, and thee alone, I live ! 

"When that grim foe of life below. 
Comes in between to make us part j 

The iron hand that breaks our band. 
It breaks my bliss — it breaks my heart. 



THE DEATH SONG. 

Scene— A Field of Battle.— Time of the Day— 
Evening.— 'ITie Wounded and Dying of the Victo- 
rious Army are supposed to join in the following 
Song : 

Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, 
and ye skies, 
Now gay with the bright setting sun ; 
Farewell, loves and friendships, ye dear tender 
ties, 
Our race of existence is run ! 

Thou grim King of Terrors, thou life's gloomy 
foe, 
Go, frighten the coward and ilavti ; 
Go teach them to tremble, fell tyri.iic ! but 
know, 
No terrors hast thou to the brave. 

Thou Btrikest the dull peasant ; he sinks in the 
' dark. 

Nor saves even the wreck of a name ; 
Thou strikest the young hero — a glorious mark ! 
He falls in the blaze of his fame ! 

In the proud field of honom- — our swords in our 
hands, 

Our king and our country to save — 
While victory shines on life's last ebbing sands, 

O ! who would not die with the brave ! ^ . 



But the ae best dance e er cam to the heela^ 
Was, The deil's awa wi* the excsieman. 
The deiVs awa, §-c. 



THE DEIL'S AWA WI' THE EXCISE- 
MAN. 

The deil cam fiddUng thtough the toun, 

And danced awa wi' the exciseman ; 
And ilka auld wife cried, Auld Mahoun, 
I wish you luck o' the prize, man. 
The deil's awa, the deil's awa. 

The deil's awa wi' the exciseman ; 
He's danced awa, he's danced awa, 
He's danced awa wi' the exciseman ! 

We'll mak our maut, we'll brew our drink, \ 
We'll laugh, sing, and rejoice, man ; 

And mony braw thanks to the meikle black deil, 
That danced awa wi' the exciseman ! 
The deil's awa, §*c. 

There's threesome reels, there's foursome reels. 
There's hornpipes and strathspeys, man ; 



THE ELECTION. 
Tune—" Fy, let us a' to the bndal." 

Ft/, let us a' to Kirkcudbright, 
For there will be bickering there,' 

For Murray's light horse are to mttster ; 
A.7id oh, how the heroes will swear I 

And there will be Murray commander, 
And Gordon the batttle to win : 

Like brithers they'll stand by each othei. 
Sac knit in alliance and sin. 
Fy, let us a', S(c. 

And there will be black-nebbed Johnnie, 
The tongue of the trump to them a' ; 

If he get na hell for his haddin'. 
The deil gets nae justice ava ! 
Fy, let us a', SfC. 

And there will' be Templeton's birkie, 
A boy no sae black at the bane ; 

Eut, as to his fine Nabob fortune. 
We'll e'en let the subject alane. 
Fy, let us a', Ifc. 

And there will be Wigton's new sheriff: 
Dame Justice fu' brawly has sped ; 

She's gotten the heart of a B by. 

But what has become of the head ? 
Fy, let us a', Sfc. 

And there will be Cardoness' squire, 

So mighty in Cardoness' eyes ; 
A wight that wiU weather damnation, 

For the devil the prey wUl despise. 
Fy, let us a , §"c. 

And there will be Douglasses doughty. 
New christening towns far and near ; 

Abjuring their democrat doings. 
By kissing the doup of a peer 
Fy, let us a', Sfc. 

And there will be Kenmure sae generous. 
Whose honour is proof 'gainst the storm ; 

To save them frae stark reprobation. 
He lent them his name to the firm, 
Fy, let us a', §"c. 

But we winna mention Redcastle ; 

The body, e'en let him escape : 
He'd venture the gallows for siller. 

An 'twerena the cost o' the rape. 
Fy, let us a', Sfc. 

And there is our King's Lord Lieutenant, 
Sae famed for his grateful return i 



SONGS. 



231 



The blllie is getting his questions, 
To say in St. Stephen's the morn. 
Fi/, let us a, Sfc. 

And there will be hids of the gospel, 
Muirheud, wha's as gude as he's true ; 

And there will be Buittle's apostle, 
Wha's niair o' the black than the blue. 
Fi/, let us a, ^-c. 

■ And there will be folk frae St. Mary's,* 
A house o' great merit and note : 
The deil ane but honours them highly— 
The deil ane will gie them lus vote. 
Ft/, let vs a', §'C. 

And there will be wealthy young Richard : 
Dame Fortune should bing by the neck ; 

But for prodigal thriftless bestowing, 
His merit had won him respect. 
Fy, let us a\ Sfc. 

And there will be rich brither Nabobs ; 

Though Nabobs, yet men o' the first : 
And there will be Colliston's whiskers. 

And Quintin, o' lads not the warst. 
Fi/, let us a, &jC. 

Ajid there will be Stamp-office Jolmule— 
Tak tent how you purchase a dram ; 

And there will be gay Cassencarry ; 
And there will be gleg Colonel Tarn. 
Fy, let us a', §-c. 

And there will be trusty Kirrochtric, 
Whase honour is ever his sa' > 

If the virtues were packed in a parcel, 
His worth might be sample for a'. 
Fy, let us a\ Sfc. 

i^nd can we forget the auld Major, 
Wha'U ne'er be forgot in the Greys ? 

Our flattery we'll keep for some other ; 
Him only it's justice to praise. 
Fy, let us a', ^-c. 

And there will be maiden Kilkerran, 
And also Barskimming's gude wight ; 

And there will be roaring Birtwhistle, 
Wha luckily roars in the right. 
Fy, let us a', Sfc. 

And there, frae tne Niddisdale border, 
We'll mingle the Maxwells in droves, 

Teuch Jockie, stancVi Gcordie, and Willie, 

That granes for the fishes and loves. 

Fi/, let us a\ §'c. 

And there will be Logan M'D 1 ; 

Sculduddery and he will be there ; 



And also the Scott o' Galloway, 
Sodgering, gunpowder Blair. 
Fy, let us a\ Sfc. 

Then hoy ! the chaste interest o' Broughton, 
And hey for the blessings 'twill bring ! 

It may send Balmaghie to the Commons ; 

la Sodom 'twould malie him a king. 

Fy, let us a', Ifc. 

And hey ! for the sanctified M — r — y. 
Our hind wha wi' chapels has stored ; 

He foundered his horse among harlots, 
But gied the auld mare to the Lord. 
Fy, let us a', S^c. 



THE GALLANT WEAVER. 

Nv'HKiiK Cart rins rowin to the sea, 
By mouy a flow'r and spreading tree. 
There lives a lad, the lad for me, 
He is a gallant weaver. 

Oh I had wooers aught or nine. 
They gied me rings and ribbons fine ; 
And i was fear'd my heart would tine. 
And I gied it to the weaver. 

My daddie sign'd my tocher-band 
To gie the lad that has the land. 
But to my heart I'll add my hand, 
And give it to the weaver. 

While birds rejoice in leafy bowers ; 
While bees delight in opening flowers ; 
While corn grows green in simmer showers, 
I'll love my gallant weaver.* 



THE GARDENER WI* HIS PAIDLE. 

This aii- is the Gardeners' March. The title 
of the song only is old ; the rest is nunc. 

When rosy May comes in wi* flowers, 

.To deck her gay, green-spreading bowers , 
Then busy, busy are his hours, 
The gard'ner wi' his paidle. 

The crystal waters gently fa' ; 
The merry birds are lovers a' ; 
The scented breezes round him blaw, 
^ The gard'ner wi* his paidle. 

When purple morning starts the hare 
To steal upon her early fare ; 
Then thro' the dews he maun repair, 
The gard'ner wi' his paidle. 



• Meaning the family of the Earl of Selkifk, resi- 
dent at St, Mary'5 Isle, near Kijkcudbfight, 



In some editions mihris swbstitwtea fox imver. ' 



232 

XTIien day expiring in the west, 
The curtain draws of nature's rest ; 
He flies to her arras he lo'es best, 
The gard'ner wi* his paidle. 



BURNS' WORKS. 



THE GLOOMY NIGHT IS GATHER. 
ING FAST. 

7^ine~" Danks of Ayr." 

The gloomy night is gath'ring fast, 
Loud roars the wild inconstant blast, 
Yon murky cloud is foul with rain, 
I see it driving o'er the plain. 
The hunter now has Ii'ft the moor. 
The scatter'd coveys meet secure. 
While here I wander, prest with care, 
Along the lonely bunks of Ayr. 

The autumn mourns her ripening com, 
By early winter's ravage torn ; 
Across her placid azure tsky 
She sees the scowling tempest fly : 
Chill runs my blood to hear it rave, 
I think upon the stormy wave, 
Where many a danger I must dare, 
Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr. 

*Tis not the surging billows* roar, 
'Tis not that fatal, deadly shore ; 
Though death in every shape appear. 
The wretched have no more to fear : 
But round my heart the ties are bound. 
That heart transpierced with many a wound ; 
These bleed afresh, those ties I tear. 
To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr. 

Farewell old Coila's hills and dales. 
Her heathy moors and winding vales ; 
The scene where wretched fancy roves, 
Pursuing past, unhappy loves ! 
Farewell ray friends, farewell my foes. 
My peace with these, my love with those ; 
The bursting tears my heart declare ; 
Farewell the bonnie banks of Ayr.* 



THE HEATHER WAS BLOOMING. 
Tttn*-." 1 red you beware at the hunting." 

The heather was blooniing, the meadows were 

mawn, 
Our lads gaed a hunting, ae day at the dawn, 
O'er moors and o'er mosses and niony a glen, 
At length they discovered a bonnie moor-hen. 



• Bums wrote this sonij, while convoying his chest 
80 far oil the road from .Ayrshire to Oreonock, where 
he intended to embaili in a few days for Jamaica. He 
designed it, he says, as his farewell dirge to his native 
«oiuitry. 



Ired you beware at the hunting, young men ; 
I red you beware at the hunting, young men ; 
Tak some on the wing, and some as they 

spring, 
JBut cannily steal on a bonnie moor-hen. 

Sweet brushing the dew from the brown heather 

beUs, 
Her colours betray'd her on yon mossy fells ; 
Her plumage outlustred the pride o* the spring, 
And O ! as she wantoned gay on the wing. 
I red, §-c. 

Auld Phoebus hirascl, as he peep'd o'er the hill ; 
In spite at her plumage he tryed his skill ; 
He levell'd his rays where she bask'd on the 

brae — 
His rays were outshone, and but mark'd when 

she lay. 

Ired, §"c. 

They hunted the valley, they hunted the hill ; 
The best of our lads wi' the best o' their skill ; 
But still as the fairest she sat in their sight. 
Then, whirr ! she was over, a mile at a flighttuM 
Ired, Sfc. 



THE HIGHLAND LASSIE, O. 

This was a composition of mine in very etlljr 

life, before I was known at all in the world. 

Nae gentle dames, tho* ne'er sae faiff 

Sail ever be my Muse's care ; 

Their titles a' are empty shew ; 

Gie me my Highland lassie, O. 

Within the glen sae bushy, O, 
Aboon the plain sae rashy, O, 
I set me down wi' right good wiUf 
To sing my Highland lassie, O. 

were yon hills and vallies minot 
Yon palacQ and yon gardens fine I 
The world then the love should know 

1 bear my Highland lassie, O. 

Within the glen, jfc. 

But fickle fortune frowns on me, 
And I maun cross the raging sea ;' 
But while my crimson currents fiow> 
I'll lo'e my "'-bland lassie, O. 
I ' Within the glen, Sfc, 

Altho' thro' foreign climes I range, 
I know her heart will never change, 
For her bosom burns with honour's glow 
My faithful Highland lassie, O. 
Within the glen, Sfc. 

For her I'll dare the billow's roar ; 
For her I'U trace ft distant shore ; 



SONGS. 



233 



Tbct Indka wealth may lustre throw 
Aroond my Highland lassie, O. 
Within the glen,.^c. 

t 
She has my heart, she has my hand, 
By secret truth and honour's band ! 
"Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low, 
I'm thine, my Highland lassie, O. 

Farewell the glen, sae hush/, O, 
Farewell the plain, sae rashy, O, 
To other lands I now must go, 
To sing my Highland lassie, O. 



THE LAD THAT'S FAR AWA. 
T^M—" O'er the hills and far awa." 

0,'row can I be blithe and glad, 
Or how can I gang brisk and braw, 

When the bonnie lad that I lo'e best 
It o'er the hills and far awa? 

It's no the frosty winter wind, 

It's no the driving drift and snaw ; 

But aye the tear comes in my ee 
To think on him that's far awa. 

My father pat me frae his door, ^ 

My friends they hae disown'd me a' ; 

But I hae ane will take my part, 
The bonnie lad that's far awa. 

A pur 0* gloves he gae to me, 

And silken snoods he gae me twa ; 

And I will wear them for his sake, 
The bonnie lad that's far awa. 

The weary winter soon vnll pass. 

And spring will deed the birken shaw ; 

And my sweet babie will be born. 
And he'll come hame that's far awa. 



THE LASS OF BALLOCHMYLE. 
Tune—" The Lass of BaUochmyle.'* 

'TwAS even, the dewy fields were green. 

On ilka blade the pearls hang ; 
The zephyr wanton'd round the bean, 

And bore its fragrant sweets alang : 
In ev'ry glen the mavis sang ; 

All nature list'ning seem'd the while. 
Except where greenwood echoes rang, 

Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle. 

With careless step I onward stray'd. 
My heart rejoiced in Nature's joy ; 

When, rousing in a lonely glade, 
A maiden fair I chanced to spy : 

Her look was like the morning's eye, 
Her air like Nature's vernal smile ; 



The lily's hue, and rose's dye, 
Bespake the lass o' Ballochmyle. 

Fair is the morn in flowery May, ' 

And sweet is night in Autumn mild, 
When roving through the garden gay, 

Or wand'ring in the lonely wild ; 
But woman, Nature's darling child ! 

There all her charms she does compilt; 
Even there her other works are foil'd, 

By the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle. 

Oh, had she been a country maid. 

And I the happy country swain. 
Though shelter'd in the lowest shed 

That ever rose on Scotland's plain ! 
Through weary winter's wind and raia> 

With joy, with rapture, I would toil ; 
And nightly to my bosom strain 

The bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle. 

Then pride might climb the slipp'ry steep^ 

Where fame and honours lofty shine; 
And thirst of gold might tempt the deep, ' 

Or downward dig the Indian mine. 
Give me the cot below the pine, 

To tend the flocks, or till the soil, 
And ev'ry day have joys divine, 

Wi' the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle.* 



THE LASS THAT MADE THE BED 
TO ME-t 

When Januar winds were blawin' caoldy 

Unto the north I bent my way, 
The mirksome nicht did me enfauld, 

I kend na where to lodge till day ; 
But by good luck a lass I met. 

Just in the middle of my care, 
And kindly she did me invite 

To walk into a chamber fair. 

I bow'd fu' low unto this maid, 
And thank'd her for her courtesie j 

I bow'd fa' low unto this maid, 
And bade her make the bed to me. 



• This song was wrilten in praise of Miss Alexander 
of Ballochmyle. Bums happened one fine evening to 
meet this young lady, when walking through the 
beautiful woods of Ballochmyle, which lie at uie dis- 
tance of two miles from his farm of Mossgiel. Struck 
witlj a sense of her passing beauty, he wrote this noble 
lyric; which he soon nfter sent to her, enclosed in a 
letter, as full of delicate and romantic sentiment, and 
as poetical as itself. He was somewhat mortified to 
find, that either maidenly modest, or pride of supe. 
rior station, prevented her from acknowledging the re- 
ceipt of his compliment : Indeed it is no where record, 
ed that she, at any stage of life, shewed the >malle«t 
sense of it ; as to her the pearls seem to have been li- 
terally thrown away. 

t There is an older and coarser song, containing the 
same incidents, and said to have Ijeen occauoned by aa 
adventure of Charles 11., when that monarch rcsideit 
in Scotland with the Prcsbvterian army, 165()-jl. Th» 
affair ha|)pened at the house of Port-Lethem, in Aber- 
deenshire, and it was a daughter of the laird that m»i» 
I the bed to the king. 

50 



234 



BURNS* WORKS. 



She made the bed baith wide and braid, 
Wi' twa white hands she spread it doun ; 

She put the cup to her rosy lips, 

And drank, Young man, now sleep ye soun. 

She snatch'd the candle in her hand, 

And from the chamber went wi' speed : 
But I ca'd her quickly back again, 

To lay some mair beneath my held. 
A cod she laid beneath my heid. 

And served me with a due respect ; 
And, to salute her wi' a kiss, 

I put my arms about her neck. 

Haud afif your hands, young man, she says, 

And dinna sae uncivil be ; 
It will be time to speak the morn, 

If ye hae ony love for me. 
Her hair was like the links o' gowd. 

Her teeth were like the ivorie, 
Her cheeks like lilies dipt in wine, 

The lass that made the bed to me. 

Her bosom was the driven snaw, 

Twa driftit heaps sae fair to see ; 
Her limbs the polish'd marble stane. 

The lass that made the bed to me. 
I kiss'd her ower and ower again, 

And aye she wistna what to say ; 
I laid her 'tween me and the wa' ; 

The lassie thocht na lang till day. 

Upon the morrow, when we rase, ' 

I thank'd her for her courtesie ; 
And aye she blush'd, and aye she sigh'd, 

And said, Alas ! yeVe ruin'd me. 
I clasp'd her waist, and kiss'd her syne, 

While the tear stood twinklin' in her ee ; 
I said. My lassie, dinna cry, 

For ye aye shall mak the bed to me. 

She took her mother's Holland sheets, 

And made them a* in sarks to me ; 
Blythe and merry may she be. 

The lass that made the bed to me. 
The bonnie lass that made the bed to me, 

The braw lass that made the bed to me ; 
I'll ne'er forget, till the day I dee, 

The lass that made the bed to me. 



How long I have liv'd — but how much liv'd ill 

vain ! 
How little of life's scanty span may remain : 
What aspects old Time, in his progress, ha4 

worn ; 
What tics cruel Fate in my bosom has torn. 
How foolish, or worse, 'till our summit is gain'd! 
And downward, how wcaken'd, how darken'^, 

how p>un'd ! 
This life's not worth having with all it can give. 
For something beyond it poor man sure saust 

live. 



THE LEA-RIG. 

Tune—" The Lea-Rig." 

When o'er the hills the eastern star 

Tells buchtlu-time is near, my jo ; 
And owsen frae the furrowed field 

Return sae douff and weary, O ; 
Down by the burn, where scented birks 

Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo, 
I'll meet thee on the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie, O. 

In mii'kest glen, at midnicht hour, 

I'd rove and ne'er be eerie, O, 
If through that glen I gaed to thee. 

My ain kind dearie, O. 
Althoup;li the night were ne'er sae wild, 

And I were ne'er sae wearie, O, 
I'd meet thee on the lea-rig, 

]My ain kind dearie, O. 



THE LAZY MIST. 

The la2y mist hangs from the brow of the hill. 
Concealing the course of the dark winding rill ; 
How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, ap- 
pear. 
As autumn to winter resigns the pale year. 
The forests are leafless, the meadows are brown, 
And all the gay foppery of summer is flown : 
Apart let me wander, apart let me muse. 
How quick time is flying, how keen fate pur- 
sues: 



THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS. 

The first half stanza of this ballad is old. 

The lovely lass o' Inverness, 

Nae joy nor pleasure can she see ; 
For e'en and morn, she cries, alas ! 

And aye the saut tear blins her ee. 
Drumossie moor, Drumossie day, 

A waefu' day it was to me ; 
For there I lost my father dear. 

My father dear and brethren three ; 

Their winding sheet the bluidy clay. 

Their graves are growing green to see •, 
And by them lies the dearest lad 

That ever blest a woman s ee i 
Now wae to thee thou cruel lord, 

A bluidy man I trow thou oe. 
For mony a heart thou hast made aair. 

That ne'er did wrang to thine or thee ! 



i 



SONGS. 



'^35 



THE LOVER'S MORNING SALUTE 
TO HIS MISTRESS. 

Tune—" Deil tak tlie wars." 

Sleep'st thou, or wak'st thou, fairest cleatuie ? 

Rosy morn now lifts his eye, 
Numbering ilka bud which nature 

Waters wi' the tears o' joy : 

Now through the leafy woods, 

And by the reeking floods ; 
Wild Nature's tenants, freely, gladly atiay i 

The lintwhite in his bower 

Chants o'er the breathing Hower : 

The lav'rock to the sky 

Ascends wi' sangs o' joy, 
While the sun and thou arise to bless the day.* 
Phoebus gilding the brow o' morning 

Banishes ilka darksome shade. 
Nature gladdening and adorning ; 

Such to me my lovely maid. 
When absent frae my fair. 

The murky shades o' care 
With starless gloom o'ercast my suUcu sky ; 

But when in beauty's light. 

She meets my ravish'd sight, 

When through my very heart 

Her beaming glories dart ; 
Tis then I wake to life, to light and joy. f 



THE RIGS O' BARLEY. 
Tune — " Corn-Rigs are bonnie." 

It was upon a Lammas night. 

When corn-rigs are bonnie, 
Beneath the moon's unclouded light, 

I held awa to Annie. 
The time flew by wi' tentless heed, 

'Till, 'tween the late and early, 
Wi' sma' persuasion shee agreed 

To see me through the barley. 

The sky was blue, the wind was still. 

The moon was shining clearly ; 
I set her down, wi' right good-will, 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 
I ken't her heart was a' rav ain ; 

I loved her most sincerity ; 
I kiss'd her ower and ower again, 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 



* yariation. Now to tlio streaming fountain. 

Or up the heathy mountain 
The hart, hind, and roe, freely, wilcUy.wanton stray ; 

In twining hazel bowers 

His lay the linnet pours : 

The lav'ioek, &c. 

t Var'uition. When frae my Chloris parted. 
Sad, cheerless, broken hearted, 
llien night^s gloomy shades, cloudy, daik, o'ercast 
my sky ; 
But when she cliarms my sight, 
' In pride of bcautry's linlit. 

When thro' my very heart 
Her beaming glories dart ; 
'Tis then, 'tis then 1 wake to life and Joy. 



I lock'd her in my fond embrace ! 

Her heart was beating rarely — 
My blessings on that happy place, 

Amang the rigs o' barley ! 
But by the moon and stars so bright. 

That shone that hour sac clearly ! 
She aye shall bless that happy night, 

Amang the rigs o' bai-ley. 

I hae been blythe wi' comrades dear ; 

I hae been merry drinking ; 
\ hae been joyfu' gathering gear ; 

I hae been happy thinking : 
But a' the pleasures e'er I saw, 

Though thoy were doubled fairly. 
That happy night was worth them a* 

Amang tlw rigs o' barley. 



THE SOLDIER'S RETURN. 

Taiie—" The MUI, Mill, O." 

When wiJd war's deadly blast was biawn, 

And gentle peace returning. 
And eyes again wi' pleasure beam'd. 

That had been blear'd wi' mourning ; 
I left the Hues and tented field. 

Where lang I'd been a lodger ; 
My humble knapsack a' my wealth ; 

A poor but honest sodger. 

A leal light heart beat in my breast. 

My hands unstain'd wi' plunder ; 
And for fair Scotia hame again, 

I cheery on did wander. 
I thought upon the banks o' Coil, 

I thought upon my Nancy ; 
I thought upon the witching smile, 

That caught my youthful fancy. 

At length I reach'd the bonnie glen, 

Where early life I sported ; 
I pass'd the mill and trysting thorn, 

Where Nancy oft I courted. 
V/ha spied I but my aia dear maid, 

Down by her mother's dwelling ? 
And turn'd me round to hide the flood 

That ia my ec was swelling. 

Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I, sweet lass. 

Sweet as yon hawthorn's blossom, 
O ! happy, happy may he be. 

That's dearest to thy bosom ! 
iMy purse is light, I've far to gang, 

And f lin wad be thy lodger ; 
I've ser/'d my king and country lang ' 

Tak pity on a sodgor. 

Sac wistfully she gazed on mc, 
And lovelier grew than ever ; 

Quoth she, A sodger ance I loved, 
Forget liiin will I never. 



SS6 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Our humble cot and hamely fare, 

Ye freely shall partake o't ; 
That gallant badge, the dear cockade, 

Ye're welcome for the sake o't. 

She gazed — she redden'd like a rose—* 

Syne pale as ony lily ; 
She sank within my arms, and cried, 

Art thou my ain dear Willie ? 
By Him, who made yon sun and sky. 

By whom true love's regarded y 
I am the man ! and thus may still 

True lovers be rewarded. 

The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame, 

And find thee still true-hearted ; 
Though poor in gear, we're rich in love, 

And mair we'se ne'er be parted. 
Quoth she. My grandsire left me gowd, 

A mailin plenish'd fairly ; 
Then come, my faithfii' sodger lad, 

Thou'rt welcome to it dearly. 

For gold the merchant ploughs the main, 

The farmer ploughs the manor ; 
But glory is the sodger's prize. 

The sodger's wealth is honour. 
The brave poor lodger ne'er despise, 

Nor count him as a stranger : 
Remember he's his country's stay. 

In day and hour o' danger. • 



THE BANKS OF NITH. 
Tune—" Robie Donna Goraeh." 

Trk Thames flows proudly to the sea. 

Where royal cities stand ; 
But sweeter flows the Nith to me, 

Where Cummins ance had high command : 
IVhea shall I see that honoured land. 

That winding stream I love so dear ! 
Must wayward fortune's adverse hand 

For ever, ever keep me here. 

How lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales. 

Where spreading hawthorns gaily bloom ; 
How sweetly wind thy sloping dales 

Where lambkins wanton thro' the broom ! 
Tho' wandering, now, must be my doom, 

Far from thy bonnie banks and braes. 
May there ray latest hours consume, 

Araang the friends of early days ! 



» " Bums, I have been informed," says a clergyman 
of Dumfriesshire, in a letter to Mr. George Thomson, 
editor of Select Meloilics of .Scotland, " was one sum- 
Tticr evening in the inn at Brownhill, with a couple of 
friends, wlien a poor w.iv-worn soldier passed the win- 
dow. Of a sudden it ftruuk the poet to call him in, 
and get the recital of his adventures; after hearing 
which, he all at once fell into one of those fits of ab- 
straction, not unusual to him. He was lifted to the 
region where he had his garl.ind and his singing-robes 
about him, and the result was this admirable song he 
luit you for ' The Mill, Mill, O." " 



THE TOAST. 

At a meeting of the DuMPaiESSHiBE Voluktebes, 
held to commemorate the annivenary of RoDNEV't 
victory, April 12th, 1782, Burns was called upon for 
a Song, instead of which he delivered the following 
Lines ;— 

Instead of a song, boys, I'll give you a toast. 
Here's the memory of those on the twelfth that 

we lost ; — 
That we lost, did 1 say, naj-, by heav'n ! that 

we found, ^ 

For their fame it shall last while the world goes 

round. 
The next in succession, I'll give you the King, 
Whoe'er would betray him on high may he 

swing ; 
And here's the grand fabric, our free Consti- 
tution, 
As built on the base of the great Revolution ; 
And longer with Politics not to be cramm'd, 
Be Anarchy curs'd, and be Tyranny daran'd ; 
And who would to Liberty e'er prove disloyal, 
May his son be a hangman, and he his first triaL 



THERE'LL NEVER BE PEACE TILL 
JAMIE COMES HAME. 

This tune is sometimes called, There's few 
gude Fellows when Willie's awa, — But I never 
have been able to meet with any thing cIm of 
the song than the title. 

Tune—" There^l never be peace till Jamie eom« 
hame." 

Bt yon castle-wa*, at the close o' the day, 

I heard a man sing, though his head it was 

grey ; 
And, as be was singing, the tears down came-^ 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hamc. 

The church is in ruins, the state is in jars. 
Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars : 
We daurna weel say't, but we ken wha's to 

blame, — 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hune. 

My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword, 
And now I greet round their green beds in the 

yird : 
It brak the sweet heart o' my faithfii' auld 

dame — 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes bame. 

Now life is a burden that bows me down, 
Since I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown ; 
But till my last moments my words are the 

same,— 
There'll never be peace till Jamie com«a hamc. 



SONGS. 



THE STOWN GLANCE O' KINDNESS. 
Tunt—'> Laddie, lie near >ne." 

TwAS na her bonnie blue ee was my ruin ; 
Fair though she be, that was ne'er my undoin' : 
*Twas the dear smile when naebody did mind us, 
'Twas the bewitching, sweet, stown glance o' 
kindness. 

Sair do I fear that to hope is denied me, 
Sair do I fear that despair maun abide me ; 
But though fell fortune should fate us to sever," 
Queen shall she be in my bosom for ever. 

Mary, I'm thine wi' a passion sincerest, 
And thou hast plighted me love o' the dearest ! 
And thou'rt the angel that never can alter j 
Sooner the sun in his motion shall falter. 



«? 



The birdies dowie moaning, 
Shall a' be blythely singing, 
And every flower be springing. 

Sae I'll rejoice the lee-lang day, 
When by his mighty warden 

My youth's returned to fair Strathspey, 
And bonnie Castl&-Gordon.* 



THERE'S NEWS, LASSES. 

There's news, lasses, news, 
Gude news hae I to tell ; 

There's a boat fu' o' lads 
Come to our toun to selL 

The wean wants a cradle, 
And the cradle wants a cod; 

A.nd ril no gang to my bed, 
Until I get a nod. 

Father, quo' she, Mother, quo' she. 

Do ye what ye can, 
I'll no gang to my bed 

Till I get a man. 

The wean, ^e. 

I hae as gude a craft-rig 
As made o' yird and stane ; 

And waly fa' the ley crap, 
For I maun till't again. 
The wean, §-c. 



THE YOUNG HIGHLAND ROVER. 

Tun*—" Morag." ■' 

Loud blaw the frosty breezes. 

The snaws the mountains cover ; 
Like winter on me seizes. 

Since my young highland rover 

Far wanders nations over. 
Where'er he go, where'er he stray. 

May heaven be his warden : 
Return him safe to fair Strathspey, 

And bonnie Castle-Gordon ! 

The trees now naked groaning. 
Shall toon wi' leaves be h.'Dgiog, 



THE WOODLARK. 

Tuna—" Where'U bonnie Annie Ue." 

Or, " Loch-Erroch Side." 

O STAT, sweet warbling wood-lark, nttj. 
Nor quit for me the trembling spray, 
A helpless lover couits thy lay. 
Thy soothing fond complaining. 

Again, again that tender part, 
That I may catch thy melting art i 
For surely that wad touch her heart, 
Wha kUls me wi* disdaining. 

Say, was thy little mate unkind, 
And heard thee as the careless wind ? 
Oh, nocht but love and sorrow join'd, 
Sic notes o' woe could wauken. 

Thou tells o' never-ending care ; 
O' speechless grief, and dark despair : 
For pity's sake, sweet bird, nae nuir ? 
Or my poor heart is broken ! 



THERE'S A YOUTH IN 'THIS CITY. 

Thbrk's a youth in this city, it were a greal 
pity 
That he from our lasses should wander awa ; 
For he's bonnie and braw, weel-favour'd with a', 

And his hair has a natural buckle ani a*. 
His coat is the hue of his bonnet sae blue ; 

His fecket f is white as the new-driven s'nsw ; 
His hose they are blae, and his shoon like the 
slae. 
And his clear siller buckles they dazzle ns a." 
His coat is the hue, Sfc. 

For beauty and fortune the laddie's been courtin ; 
Weel-featur'd, weel-tocher'd, weel mounted 
and braw ; 
But chiefly the siller, that gars him gang till her, 

The pcnnie's the jewel that beautifies a'.— 
There's Meg wi' the mailin, that fain wad a 
haen him, 
And Susy whase daddy was Laird o* the ba* • 



• The young Highland rover is supposed to be tha 
young Chevalier, Prince Charlei Edwafd ""»"»• 
t An under-w«i«tco«t with sleeves. 



233 



BURNS' WORKS. 



There's lang-tocTier'd Nancy maist fetters Jiis 
fancy, 
— But the laddie's dear sel he lo'es t1care!<t of a'. 
His coat is the hue. ^r. 



THE TOCHER FOR lAIE. 
Tune — " Balinamotia Ora." 

AwA wi' your witclicraft o' l^eauty's alarms, 
The slender bit beauty you grasp in your asms ; 
O, gie me the lass that has acres o' charms, 
O, gie me the lass wi' the weel-stockit farms. 
Then hey for a lass jvV a tocher, then he'j for 

a lass wi' a tocher, 
Then hey for d lass rci' a tocher ; the vice 
yellow guineas for me. 

Your beauty's a flower, in th.c morning that 

blows, 
And withers the faster, the faster it grows ; 
But the rapturous charm o' the bonme green 

knowes, 
Ilk spring they're new deckit wi' bonnie white 

yowes. 

Then hey, §-c. ' 

And e'en when this beauty your bosom has blest, 

The brightest o' beauty may cloy, when possest ; 

But the sweet yellow darlings wi' Geordie im- 
prest, 

The Linger ye hae them — the mair they're ca- 
rest. 

Then hey, §t. 



But wcel the t\'atc1iing lover marlca 
The kind love that's in her ee. 

Q fin- 7-- ,1-1 VIII Ith) ?rt,?C(V, Sir. 



THIS IS NO MY ATN LASSIE. 

1 SEE a form, I see a fare, 
Ye weel may wi' the fairest place : 
It wants, to roe, the witching grac. 
The kind love that's in her cc. 
O this is no viy ain lassie. 

Fair though the lassie be ; 
O weel hen I my ain lassie. 
Kind love is in her cc. 

She's bonnie, blooming, Straight, and tall. 
And lang has had my heart in thrall ; 
And aye it charms my very saul, 
The kind love that's in her cc. 
O this is no my ain lassie. See. 

A thief sae pawkie is my Jean, 
To steal a blink, by a' unseen ; 
But gleg as light are lover's een, 
When kind love is in the ee. 
O this is no my nin lassie, ^x. 

It may escape the courtly sparks. 
It may escape the learned clerki ; 



THERE WAS ONCE A DAY. 

Tune—" Caledonian Hunt's Delight," 

There was once a day, but old Time then Was 
young. 
That brave Caledonia, the chief of her line. 
From some of your northern deities sprung, 
(Wlio knows not tliat brave Caledonia's di- 
vine ?) 
From Tweed to the Orcades was her domain, 
To hunt, or to pasture, or to do what she 
would : 
Her heavenly relations there fixed her reign. 
And pledg'd her their godheads to warrant 
it good. 

A lambkin in peace, but a lion in war, 

The pride of her kindred the heroine grew : 
Her grand^irc, old Odin, triumphantly swore,— 
" Whoe'er shall provoke thee th' encounter 
shall rue !" 
With tillage or pasture at times she would sport. 
To feed her foir flocks by her green rustling 
corn ; 
But chiefly the woods were here fav'rite resort, 
Her darling amusement, the hounds and the 
born. 

Long quiet she reigned ; 'till thitherward steers 
A flight of bold eagles from Adria's strand ; * 
I Repeated, successive, for many long yeara. 

They darken'd the air, and they plundered 
the land : 
Tlieir pounces were murder, and terror their cry, 
They'd conquer'd and ruin'd a world beside : 
She took to her hills and her arrows let fly, 
The daring invaders they fled or they died. 

The fell Harpy-raven took wing from the north, 
The scotu-ge of the seas, and the dread of 
the shore •,f 
The wild Scandinavian boar issued forth 

To wanton in carnage, and wallow in gore : \ 
O'er countries and kingdoms their fury pre- 
vail'd. 
No arts could appease them, nor arms conid 
repel ; 
But brave Caledonia in vain they assail'd, 
As Largs well can witness, and Loncartie 
tell.§ 

The Cameleon-savage disturb'd her repose, 
With tumult, disquiet, rebellion and strife ; 



* The Romans. + The Saxons. $ The Danes. 
5 Two famous battles, in which the Danes or Nor. 
wegians were defeated. 



SONGS. 



239 



Provoked beyond beating, at last siie arose. 
And robb'd him at once of his hopes and his 
life:* 
The Anglian lion, the terror of France, 

Oft prowling, ensanguin'd the Tweed's sil- 
ver flood ; 
But taught by the bright Caledonian lance, 
He learned to fear in his own native wobd. 

Thus bold, independent, unconquerM and free, 
' Her bright course of glory for ever shall run : 
For brave Caledonia immortal must be ; 

I'll prove it fi-om Euclid as clear as the sun : 
Rectangle triangle, the figure we'll choose. 

The upright is Chance, and old Time is the 
base; 
But brave Caledonia's the hypothenuse ; 

Then ergo she'll match tliem, and match 
them alwap.f 



THOU HAST LEFT ME EVER, JAMIE. 

THine—" Fee him. Father." 

Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, 

Thou hast left me ever ; 
Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, 

Thou hast lift me ever. 
Aften hast thou vow'd that deatli ) 

Only should \is sever ; 
Now thou'st left thy lass for aye — 

I maun see thee never, Jamie, 
I'll sec thee never. 

Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, 

Then hast me forsaken ; 
Thou hast me for«aken, Jamie, 

Thou hast me forsaken. 
Thou canst love another jo, 

While my heart is breaking : 
Soon my weary een I'll close, 
,. Never more to waken, Jamie, 
Never more to waken. 



TIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE DAY. 

THIS SOWO I COMPOSED ABOUT THE AGE OF 
SEVENTEEN. 

Tune—" Invercald's reel. 

O Tibbie, I hae seen the day 
Ye wadna been sae shy ; 
For laik o' gear ye lightly me. 
But trowth, 1 care na bu. 



• The Highlanders of the Isles. 

t This singular figure of poetry, taken from the 
mathematics, refers to the famous proposition of Py- 
thagoras, the 47th of Euclid. In a riRht-annled tri- 
angle, the tquarc of the hypothenuse is always equal 
to the squares of 'he two other sides. 



Yestrees I met you on the moor, 
Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure ; 
Ye geek at me because I'm poor, 
But feint a hair care I. 
Tibbie, I hae, Sec. 

T doubt na, lass, but ye may think, 

Because ye hae the name o' clink. 

That ye can please me at a wink. 

Whene'er ye like to try. 

Tibbie, I hae, S^c. 

But son-ow tak him that's sae mean, 
Altho' his pouch o' coin were clean, 
Wha follows ony saucy quean 
That looks sae proud and high, 
Tibbie, I hae, 5r. 

Altho' a lad were e'er sae smart, 
If that he want the yellow dirt, 
Ye'll cast your head anither airt. 
An' answer him fu' dry. 
Tibbie, I hae, Sfc. 

But ;f he hae the name o' gear, 
Ye'lt fasten to him like a brier, 
Tho' hardly he for sense or lear 
Be better than the kye. 
Tibbie, I hae, S^c. 

But, Tibbie, lass, tak my advice. 
Your daddie's gear maks you sae nice, 
The deil a ane wad speir your price, 
Were ye as poor as I. 
Tibbie, I hae, Sfc. 

There lives a lass in yonder park, 
I wouldna gie her in her sark 
For thee wi' a' thy thousand mark ; 
Ye need na look sae high. 
Tibbie, I hae, §*c. 



TO MARY IN HEAVEN. 

Thou ling'ring star, with less'ning ray, 

That lov'st to greet the early morn ! 
Again thou usher'st in the day, 

]My Mary fi-om my soul was torn. 
Oh, Mary, dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his brea«t ? 

That sacred hour can I forget ? — 

Can I forget the hallow'd grove, 
Where, by the winding Ayr, we met. 

To live one day of parting love ? 
Eternity will not efface 

Those records dear of transports past ; 
Thy image at our last embrace ; — 

Ah ! little thought we 'twas our last I 



S40 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Ayr, gurgling, kiwM his pebbled shore, 

O'orhunsf with wild woods thickening green j 
The fragrant birch, the hawthorn hoar, 

Twitted amorous round the raptured scene. 
The flowers sprung wanton to be prest, 

The birds sung love on every spray; 
Till too, too soon the glowing west 

Proclaira'd the speed of winged day. 

Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, 

And fondly broods with miser care ; 
Time but the impression stronger makes, 

As streams their channels deeper wear 
My Mary, dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 
See'st thou lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ?* 



TRUE HEARTED WAS HE. 

Tunt-^" Bonnie Dundee." 

T&UB hearted was he, the sad swain o' the 
Yarrow, 
And fair are the maids on the banks o' the 
Ayr, 
But by the sweet side o* the Nith's winding 
river. 
Are lovers as faithful, and maidens as fair ; 
To equal young Jessie seek Scotland all over : 

To equal young Jessie you seek it in vain, 
Grace, beauty and elegance fetter her lover, 
And maidenly modesty fixes the chain. 

fresh is the rose in the gay, dewy morning, 

And sweet is the lily at evening close ; 
But in the fair presence o' lovely young Jessie, 

Unseen is the lily, unheeded the rose. 
Love sits in her smile, a wizard ensnaring ; 

Enthron'd in her een he delivers his law : 
And still to her charms she alone is a stranger, 

Her modest demeanour's the jewel of a*. 



WANDERING WILLIE. 
Tvne — " Here awa, there awa." 

Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie / 
Here awa, there awa, haud awa hame I 

Come to my bosom, my ain only dearie ; 
TM me thou briny st me my Willie again. 

WiNTEtt winds ble%v loud and cauld at our part- 
ing ; 
Fears for my Willie brought tears in my ee : 
Welcome now, summer, and welcome, my Willie ; 
The summer to nature, and Wilhe to me. 
Here awa, ifc. 



Rest, ye wild storms, in the e«vtt ot foot dtt0k 
b«r8 ! 
How your dread howling a lorer alamu ! 'T. 
Wauken, ye breezes ! row gently, ve billowi I 
And waft my dear laddie ance nuur to mj armi. 
Here awa, Sfc. 

But, oh, if he's faithless, and minds na Itia Nannie, 
Flow still between us, thou dark heaving main! 

May I never see it, may I never trow it, 
But, dying, believe that my Willie's mj tin 1 
Here awa, tfc. 



• To Marv Campbell, one of Burns's earliest and 
most beloved inistiesses, a dairy-maid in the neigh- 
bourhoiid nf Moss^ipl.— See larllier particulars in the 
l.ifc. 



WAE IS MY HEART. 

Wae is my heart, and the tear's in my ee ; ] 
Lang, lang joy's been a stranger to me : 
Forsaken and friendless my burden I bear. 
And the sweet voice o' pity ne'er sounds in my ear* 

Love thou hast pleasiues ; and deep hae I lored ; 
Love thou hast sorrows ; and sair hae I proved : 
But this bruised heart that now bleeds in my 

breast, 
I can feel by its throbbings will soon be at rest. 

O if I were, where happy I hae been ; ' 
Down by yon stream and you bonnie castle greeA : 
For there he is wand'ring and musing on me, 
Wha wad soon dry the tear frae bis Phillis's «e 



WHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE DO 
Wr AN AULD MAN. 

What can a young lassie, what sbaO a young 
lassie. 
What can a young lassie do wi' an auld man ? 
Bad luck on the pennie that tempted my minnie 
To sell her poor Jenny for siller an* Ian* ! 
Had luck on the pennie, S^c. 

He's always compleenin frae mornin to e'enin, 
He hosts and he hirples the weary day lang, ' 

He's doy'lt and he's dozin, his bluid it is frozen^ 
O' dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld man I , 
Had luck on the pennie, Sfc. 

He hums and he hankers, he frets and he cankers'; 

I never can please him, do a' that I can ; 
He's peevish, and jealous of a* the young fellows, 

O, dool on the day, I met wi' an auld man ! , 
Had luck on the pennie, ^c 

My auld auntie Katie upon me takes pity^ 
I'll do my endeavour to follow her plan ; 
I'll cross him, and wrack him, until I hearts 
break him. 
And then his auld brass will buyme a new fUh 
Sad luck on the pennit, ffe» 



SONGS. 



841 



WHA IS THAT AT MY BOWER DOOR. 

This tune is also known by the name of Lass 
an I come near thee. The words are mine. 

Wha is that at my bower door ? 

O wha is it but Findlay ; — 
Then gae your gate ye'se nae be here ! 

Indeed maun I, quo' Findlay. 
What mak ye sae like a thief? 

O come and see, quo' Findlay ;— 
Before the morn ye'll work mischief ; 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 

Gif I rise and let you in ? 

Let me in, quo' Findlay ;— 
Ye'll keep me waukin wi' your din ; 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 
In my bower if ye should stay ? 

Let me stay, quo' Findlay ;— 
I fear ye'll bide till break o' day ; 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 

Here this night if ye remain ? 

I'll remain, quo' Findlay ; — 
I dread ye'll learn the gate again ; 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay j 
What may pass within this bower ; 

Let it pass, quo' Findlay ; — 
Ye maun conceal 'till your lust hour ; 

Indeed will I, quo* Findlay ! 



WHEN GUILDFORD GOOD; 

A FRAGJIENT. 
Tune—" Killicraiikie. 

When Guildford good our pilot stood, 

And did our helm thraw, man, 
Ae night, at tea, began a plea, 

Within America, man : 
Then up they gat the raaskin-pat, 

And in the sea did jaw, man ; 
An' did nae less, in fuU Congress, 

Than quite refuse our law, man. 

Then thro' the lakes Montgomery takes, 

I wat he was na slaw, man : 
Down Zowrie's burn he took a turn. 

And Carleion did ca', man : 
But yet, whdt-reck, he, at Quebec, 

Montgomery-like did fa', man ; 
Wi' sword in hand, before his band, 

Amang his enemies a', man. 

Poor Tammy Gage, within a cage. 
Was kept at Boston ha', man ; 

Till Willie Howe took o'er the knowe 
For Philadelphia, man : 

Wi' sword an' gun he thought a sin 
^ Cuid Christian blood to draW| moa ; 



But at New. York, wi* knife and fork. 
Sir-loin he hacked sma*, man. 

Burgoyne gaed up, like spur an' whip, 

Till Fraser brave did fa' man ; 
Then lost his way, ae misty day, 

In Saratoga shaw, man. 
Cornwallis fought as lang's he dought, 

An' did the buckskins claw, man ; 
But Clinton's glaive frae rust to save. 

He hung it to the wa', man. 

Then Montague, an' Guildford too. 

Began to fear a fa', man ; 
And Sackville doure, wha stood the stouxa^ 

The German chief to thraw, man ; 
For Paddy Burke, like onie Turk, 

Nae mercy had at a', man ; 
An' Charlie Fox threw by the boZf 

An' lows'd his tinkler jaw, num. 

Then Rockingham took up the game ; 

Till death did on him ca', man ; 
When Shelburne meek held up his cheeli« 

Conform to gospel law, man. 
Saint Stephen's boys, wi' jarring noise^ 

They did his measures thraw, man, 
For North and Fox united stocks. 

And bore him to the wa', man. 

Then clubs an' hearts were Charlie's cartet, 

He swept the stakes awa', man, 
Till the diamond's ace of Indian race, 

Led him a sair faux pas, man: 
The Saxon lads,, wi' loud placads. 

On Chatham's boy did ca', man ; 
And Scotland drew her pipe, an' blew, 

" Up, Willie, waur them a', man 1" 

Behind the throne then GrenviUe*s gon% 

A secret word or twa, man ; 
While slee Dundas arous'd the class 

Be-north the Roman wa', man ] 
An' Chatham's wraith, in heavenly graitbf 

(Inspired bardies saw, man) 
Wi' liindling eyes, cry'd, " Willie^ rise ! 

Would I ha'e fear'd them a', man ?" 

But word an' blow, Nonth, Fox, and Ofc 

GowflF'd Willie like a ba', man. 
Tin Suthrons raise, and coost their claise 

Behind him in a raw, man ; 
An' Caledon threw by the drone, 

An' did her whittle draw, man ; 
An' swoor fu' rude, thro' dirt and blood 

To make it guid ia law, man. 



&1 



S42 



BURNS* WORKS. 



WHERE ARE THE JOYS I HAE MET 
IN THE MORNING. 

Tun*—" Saw ye my father." 

'WherK are tbe joys 1 Viae met in the morning, 
That danced to the lark's early song ? 

Where is the peace that awaited my wandering, 
At evening the wild woods among ? 

No more a-winding the course of yon river, 
And marking sweet flow'rets so fair ; 

No more I trace the light footsteps of pleasure, 
But sorrow and sad-sighing care. 

Is it that summer's forsaken our valleys, 

And grim surly winter is near ? 
No, no, the bees humming round the gay roses, 

Proclaim it the pride of the year. 

Fain would I hide what I fear to discover, 
Yet long, long too well have I known : 

All that has caused this wreck in my bosom. 
Is Jenny, fair Jenny alone. 

Time cannot aid me, mj^griefs are immortal. 
Nor Hope dare a comfort bestow : 

Come then, enamour'd and fond of my anguish, 
Enjoyment I'll seek in my woe. 



WHISTLE AND I'LL COME TO YOU, 
MY LAD. 

O whistle and I'll come to you, my lad*, 
O whistle and I'll come to you, my lad ; 
Tko' father and mither and a should gae mad, 
O whistle and III come to you, my lad. 

But warily tent when ye come to court me, 
And come nae unless the back-yett be ajce ; 
Syne up the back style, and let nae body see. 
And come as ye were nae comin' to me. 
And come as ye were nae comin' to me. 
O whistle, §'c. 

At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me, 
Gang by me as tho' that ye cared nae a flie ; 
But steal me a blink o' your bonnie black e'ee, 
Yet look as ye were me Jookiu' at me. 
Yet look ks ye were nae lookin' at me. 
O whistle, §-c. 

Aye vow and protest that ye care na for me, 
And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee ; 
But court nae anither, tho' jokin ye be, 
For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me. 
For fear that she wyle your fyncy frae me. 
O whistle, S^c. 



• In some of the MSS. the first four lines run thus 
O whistle and I'll come to thee, my jo, 
O whistle and I'll c<jme to thee, my jo; 
Tho" father and mother and a" should say no, 
p whistle and I'll come to thee, my jo. 



WILLIE BREW'D A PECK 0' MAUT 

This air is Masterton's ; the song mine.—. 
The occasion of it was this : — Mr. Wm. Nicol, 
of the High School, Edinburgh, during the au- 
tumn vacation, being at Moffat, honest Allan, 
who was at that time on a visit to Dalswinton, 

and I went to pay Nicol a visit We had such 

a joyous rncetinj^, that IMr. Masterton and I 
agreed, eacli in our own way, that we should 
celebrate the business. 

O Willie brew'd peck o' maut. 

And Rob and Allan cam to see ; 
Three blyther heart', that lee-lang night, 
Ye wad na find in Christendie. 

We are nafou, we're na that fou. 

But just a drappie in our ee ; 
The cock may craw, the day may daw, 
And ay we'll taste the barley bree. 

Here are we met, three merry boys. 
Three merry boys I trou are we ; 

And mony a night we've merry been, 

And mony mae we hope to be ! 

We are na fou, Sfc. 

It is the moon, I ken her horn. 
That's blinkin in the lift sae hie ; 

She shines sae bright to wyle us hame, 
But by my sooth she'll wait a we ! 
We are nafou, §"c. 

WTia first shall rise to gang awa', 

A cuckold, coward ioun is he ! 
Wha last beside his chair shall fa', 

J'e is the king araang us three ! 
We are na fou, ffc. 



WILT THOU BE MY DEARIE. 

Tune—" The Sutor's Dochter." 

Wilt thou be my dearie : 

A\'hen sorrov.' wrings thy gentle heart, 

Wilt thou let me cheer thee : 

By the treasure of my soul, 

That's the love I bear thee ! 

I swear and vow that only thou 

Shall ever be my dearie. 

Only thou, I swear and vow. 

Shall ever be my dearie. 

Lassie, say thou lo'es me ; 
Or if thou wilt na be my ain. 
Say na thou'lt refuse me : 
If it winna, canna be. 
Thou for thine may choose me. 
Let me, lassie, quickly die, 
Tru^ting that thou lo'es me ; 
Lassie let me quickly die. 
Trusting that thou lo'es me. 



SONGS. 



243 



WILL YE GO TO THE INDIES, MY 
MARY? 

Tum—" The Yowe-buchts.* 

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 

And leave auld Scotia's shore ? 
Will ye go the Indies, my Mary, 

Across the Atlantic's roar ? 

Oh, sweet grow the lime and the orange, 

And the apple on the pine ; 
But a* the charms o' the Indies 

Can never equal thine. 

I hae sworn by the heavens, my Mary, 
I hae sworn by the heavens to be true ; 

And sae may the heavens forget me, 
When I forget my vow ! 

O, plight me your faith, my Mary, 
And plight me your lily-white hand ; 

O, plight me your faith, my Mary, 
Before I leave Scotia's strand. 

We hae plighted our troth, my Mary, 

In mutual affection to join ; 
And curst be the cause that shall part us ! 

The hour and the moment o' time ! • 



YON WILD MOSSY MOUNTAINS. 

Yon wild mossy mountains sae lofty and wide, 
That nurse in their bosom the youth o' the 

Clyde, 
Where the grouse lead their coveys thro' the 

heather to feed. 
And the shepherd tents his flock as he pipes on 

his reed : 

Where the grouse, ^c. 

Not Cowrie's rich valley, nor Forth's sunny 

shores, 
To me hae the charms o' yon wild, mossy moors ; 
For there, by a lanely, and sequcster'd stream. 
Resides a sweet lassie, my thought and my 

dream. 

For there, §-c. 

Amang thae wild mountains shall still be my 

path, 
Ilk stream foaming down its ain green, narrow 

strath ; 
For there, wi' my lassie, the day lang I rove. 
While o'er us unheeded, flic the swift hours o' 

love. 

For there, Sfc. 



• When Bums was designing his voyage to the 
West Indies, he wrote this song as a fareweil to a girl 
whom he happened to regard, at the time, with con- 
siderable admiration. He afterwards sent it to Mr. 
Thornton for publication in his splendid collection of 
the national music and musical poetry of Scotland. 



She IS not the fairest, altho' she !i fiiir ; 
O' nice education but sma' is her share ; 
Her parentage humble as humble can be ; 
But I lo'e the dear lassie because she lo'es me. 
Her parentage, ^c. 

To beauty what man but maun yield him a 

prize. 
In her armour of glances, and blushes, and 

sighs ; 
And when wit and refinement hae polished her 

darts, 
They dazzle our een, as they flie to our hearts. 
And when wit, ^c. 

But kindness, sweet kindness, in the fond spark- 
ling e'e. 

Has lustre outshining the diamond to me ; 

And the heart-beating love, as I'm clasp'd in 
her arms, 

O, these are my lassie's all-conquering charms ! 
And the heart-beating, i^c. 



YOUNG JOCKEY. 
Tune—" Jockie was the blythett lad." 

Young Jockey was the blithest lad 

In a' our town or here awa ; 
Fu' blithe he whistled at the gaud, 

Fu' lightly danc'd he in the ha' ! 
He roos'd my e'en sae bonnie blue. 

He roos'd my waist sae genty sma ; 
An' ay my heart came to my mou. 

When ne'er a body heard or saw. 

My Jockey toils upon the plain. 

Thro' wind and weet, thro' firost and snaw 
And o'er the lee I leuk fu' fain 

AVhen Jockey's owsen hameward ca'. 
An' ay the night comes round again, 

When in his arms he taks me a' ; 
An' ay he vows he'll be my ain 

As lang's he has a breath to draw. 



YOUNG PEGGY 

Young Peggy blooms our bonniest Ian, 

Her blush is like the morning. 
The rosy dawn, the springing grass. 

With early gems adorning : 
Her eyes outshine the radiant beams 

That gild the passing shower. 
And glitter o'er the crystal streams. 

And cheer each fresh'ning flower. 

Her lips more than the cherries bright, 
A richer die has grac'd them. 

They charm th' admiring gazer's sight 
And sweetly tempt to taste them : 



Ui 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Her smile is as the ev'ning mild, 
When feather'd pairs are courting, 

And little lambkins wanton wild, 
In playful bands disporting. 

Were Fortune lovely Peggy's foe, 

Such sweetness would relent her, 
As blooming spring unbends the brow 

Of surly, savage winter. 
Detraction's eye no aim can gain 

Her winning pow'rs to lessen : 
And fretful envy grins in vain, 

The poison'd tooth to fasten. 



Ye pow'rs of Honour, Love, and Trutli, 

From ev'ry ill defend her ; 
Inspire the highly favour'd youth 

The destinies intend her ; 
StUl fan the sweet connubial flame 

Responsive in each bosom ; 
And bless the dear parental name 

With many a filial blossom.* 



• This was one of the poet's earliest compositions. 
It is copied from a MS. book, which he bad before bJ< 
first pubUcaUoD, 



CORRESPONDENCE 



OF 



ROBERT BURNS 



246 



THE CORRESPONDENCE. 



NOTICE. 



Or the following letters 'of Burns, a consid- 
erable number were transmitted for publication, 
by the individuals to whom they were addressed ; 
but very few have been printed entire. It will 
easily be believed, that in a series of letters writ- 
ten without the least view to publication, va- 
riou* passages were found unfit for the press, 
from different considerations. It will also be 
readily supposed, that our Poet, writing nearly 
at the same time, and under the same feelings 
to different individuals, would sometimes fall 
into the same train of sentiment and forms of 
expression. To avoid, therefore, the tedious- 
ness of such repetitions, it has been found ne- 
cessary to mutilate many of the individual let- 
ters, and sometimes to esscind parts of great 
delicacy — the unbridled effusions of panegyric 
and regard. But though many of the letters 
are printed from originals furnished by the per- 
aoDS to whom they were addressed, others are 
printed from first draughts, or sketches, found 
among the papers of our Bard. Though in ge- 
neral no man committed his thoughts to his 
correspondents with less consideration or effort 
than Bums, yet it appears that in some instances 
he was dissatisfied with his first essays, and 
wrote out his communications in a fairer cha- 
racter, or perhaps in more studied language. 
In the chaos of his manuscripts, some of the 
original sketches were found ; and as these 
sketches, though less perfect, are fairly to be 
considered as the offspring of his mind, where 
they have seemed in themselves worthy of a 
place in this volume, and they have been in- 
serted, though they may not always correspond 
exactly with the letters transmitted, which have 
been lost or withheld. 

Our author appears at one time to have form- 
ed an intention of making a collection of his 
letters for the amusement of a friend. Accord- 
ingly he copied an inconsiderable number of 
them into a book, which he presented to Ro- 
bert Riddel, of Glenriddel, Esq. Among these 
was the account of his life, addressed to Dr. 
Moore, and printed in the Life. In copying 
from his imperfect sketches (it does not appear 
fhat he had the letters actually sent to his cor- 
respondents before him) he seems to have occa- 



sionally enlarged his observations, and altered 
his expressions. In such instances his emenda- 
tions have been adopted ; but in truth there are 
but five of the letters thus selected by the poet, 
to be found in the present volume, the rest be- 
ing thought of inferior merit, or otherwise unfit 
for the public eye. 

In printing this volume, tlie Editor has found 
some corrections of grammar necessary ; but 
these have been very few, and such as may be 
supposed to occur in the careless effusions, even 
of literary characters, who have not been in the 
habit of carrying their compositions to the press. 
These corrections have never been extended to 
any habitual modes of expression of the Poet, 
even where his phraseology may seem to violate 
the delicacies of taste ; or the idiom of our lan- 
guage, which he wrote in general with great 
accuracy. Some difference will indeed be found 
in this respect in his earlier and in his later 
compositions ; and this volume will exhibit the 
progress of his -style, as well as the history of 
his mind. In this Edition, several new letters 
were introduced not in Dr. Currie's Edition, 
and which liave been taken from the works of 
Cromek and the more recent publishere. The 
series commences with the Eard's Love Jjettert 
— the first four being of that description. They 
were omitted from Dr. Currie's Edition : why, 
has not been explained. They have been held 
to be sufficiently interesting to be here inserted. 
He states the issue of the courtship in these terms : 
— " To crown my distresses, a belle Jille whom 1 
adored, and who had pledged her soul to meet me 
in the field of matrimony, jilted me with pecu- 
liar circumstances of mortification." Mr. Lock- 
hart remarks of the letters: — " They are surely 
as well worth preserving, as many in the Col- 
lection J particularly when their early date is 
considered." — He then quotes from them large- 
ly, and adds, — " In such excellent English did 
Burns woo his country maidens, in at most his 
20th year." But we suspect the fault of the 
English was, that it was too good. It was too 
coldly correct to suit the taste of the fair maiden : 
had the wooer used a sprinkling of his native 
tongue, with a deeper infusion of his constitution- 
al enthusiasm, he might have had more success. 



24? 



LETTERS, &c. 



LOVE LETTERS. 

No. I. 
(written about the year 1780.) 



1 VERILY believe, my dear Eliza, that the pure 
genuine feelings of love, are as rare in the 
world as the pure genuine principles of virtue 
and piety. This, 1 hope, will account for the 
uncommon style of all my letters to you. By 
uncommon, I mean, their being WTitten in such 
a serious manner, w^iich, to tell you the truth, 
has made me often afiaid lest you should take 
me for a zealous bigot, who conversed with his 
mistress as he would converse with his minis- 
ter. I don't know how it is, ray dear ; for 
though, except your company, there is nothing 
on earth that gives me so much pleasure as 
writing to you, yet it never gives me those 
giddy raptures so much talked of among lovers. 
I have often thought, that if a well-grounded af- 
fection be not really a part of virtue, 'tis some- 
thing extremely a-kin to it. Whenever the 
thought of my Eliza warms my heart, every 
feeling of humanity, every principle of genero- 
sity, kindles in my breast. It extinguishes every 
dirty spark of malice and envy, which are but 
too apt to infest me. I grasp every creature 
in the arms of universal benevolence, and equal- 
ly participate in the pleasures of the happy, and 
sympathise with the miseries of the unfortunate. 
I assure you, my dear, I often look up to the 
divine Disposer of events, with an eye of gra- 
titude forthe blessing which 1 hope he intends 
to bestow on me, in bestowing you. I sincere- 
ly wish that he may bless my endeavours to 
make your life as comfortable aud happy as 
possible, both in sweetening the rougher parts 
of my natural temper, and bettering the un- 
kindly circumstances of my fortune. This, my 
dear, is a passion, at least in my view, worthy 
of a man, and I will add, worthy of a Chris- 
tian. The sordid earth-worm may profess love 
to a woman's person, whilst, in reality, his af- 
fection is centered in her pocket ; and the sla- 
vish drudge may go a-wooing as he goes to the 
liprse-market, to choose one who is stout and 
firm, and, as we may say of an old horse, one 
•who will be a good drudge and draw kindly. 
I disdain their dirty, puny ideas. I would be 



heartily out of humour with myself, if I thoug*' 
I were capable of having so poor a notion of 
the sex, which were designed to crown the 
pleasures of society. Poor devils ! I don't envy 
them their happiness who have such notions^ 
For my part, I propose quite other pleasures 
with my dear partner 



No. IL , 
TO THE SAME. 

MY BEAR ELIZA, 

I DO not remember in the course of your ac- 
quaintance and mine, ever to have heard your 
opinion on the ordinary way of falling in love, 
amongst people of our station of life : I do not 
mean the persons who proceed in^ the way of 
bargain, but those whose affection is really pla- 
ced on the person. 

Though I be, as you know very well, but a 
very awkward lover myself, yet as I have some 
opportunities of observing the conduct of otheri 
who are much better skilled in the affair of 
courtship than I am, I often think it is owing 
to lucky chance more than to good manage- 
ment, that there are not more unhappy mar- 
riages than usually are. 

It is natural for a young fellow to like the 
acquaintance of the females, and customary for 
him to keep them company when occasion serves ; 
some one of them is more agreeable to him thaa 
the rest ; there is something, he knows not 
what, pleases him, he knows not how, in her 
company. This I take to be what is called love 
with the greatest part of us, and I must own, 
my dear Eliza, it is a hard game such a one as 
you hdve to play when you meet with such a 
lover. You cannot refuse but he is sincere, and 
yet though you use him ever so favourably, per- 
haps in a few months, or at farthest in a year 
or two, the same unaccountable fancy may make 
him as distractedly fond of another, whilst you 
are quite forgot. I am aware, that perhaps the 
next time I have the pleasure of seeing you, you 
may bid me take my own lesson home, and tell 
me that the passion I have professed for you iq 
perhaps one of those transient flasheilhaTa 



248 



BURNS* WORKS. 



been describing ; but I hope, my dear Eliza, 
you will do me the justice to believe me, when 
I assure you, that the love I have for you is 
founded on the sacred piiucipks of virtue and 
honour, and by consequence, so long as you con- 
tinue possessed of those amiable qualities which 
first inspired my passion for you, so long must I 
continue to love you. Believe me, my dear, it 
is love like this alone which can render the mar- 
ried state happy. People may talk of flames and 
raptures as long as they please ; and a warm 
fancy with a flow of youthful spirits, may make 
thera feel something like what they describe ; 
but sure I am, the nobler faculties of the mind, 
with kindred feelings of the heart, can only be 
the foundation of frieudship, and it has always 
been my opinion, that the married life was only 
friendship in a more exalted degree. 

If you will be so good as to grant my wishes, 
and it should please providence to spare us to 
the latest periods of life, I can look forward 
and see, that even then, though bent down 
with wrinkled age ; even then, when all other 
worldly circumstances Vv'ill be indifFereat to me, 
I will regard my Eliza with the tenderest afJ 
fection, and for this plain reason, because she 
is still possessed of those noble qualities, im- 
proved to a much higher degree, which first 
inspired my afifection for her. 

" O ! happy state, when souls each other draw, 
" When love is liberty, and nature law." 

I know, were I to speak in such a style to 
many a girl who thinks herself possessed of no 
small share of sense, she would think it ridi- 
culous — but the language of the heart is, my 
dear Eliza, the only courtship I shall ever use 
to you. 

When I look over what I have written, I am 
sensible it is vastly diiferent from the ordinary 
style of courtship — but I shall make no apolo- 
gy — I know your good nature will excuse what 
your good sense may see amiss. 



No. in. 

TO THE SAME. 

iSY SKAR XUZA, 

I HATE often thought it a peculiarly un 
locky circumstance in love, that though, in 
every other situation in life, telling the truth is 
not only the safest, but actually by far the easi. 
est way of proceeding, a lover is never under 
greater difficulty in acting, or more puzzled for 
expression, than when his passion is sincere 
and his intentions are honourable. I do not 
think that it is very diflicult for a person of or- 
dinary capacity to talk of love and fondness, 
which are not felt, and to make vows of con- 
■tOBcy aad fidelity, which are never intended to 



be performed, if he be villain enough to prac' 
tise such detestable conduct : but to a man 
whose heart glows with the principles of in- 
tegrity and truth ; and who sincerely loves a 
woman of amiable person, uncommon refinement 
of sentiment, and purity of manners — to such a 
one, in such circumstances, I can assure you, 
my dear, from my own feelings at this present 
moment, courtship is a task indeed. There is 
such a number of foreboding fears, and distrust- 
ful anxieties crowd into my mind when I am in 
your company, or when I sit down to write to 
you, that what to speak or what to write I am 
altogether at a loss. 

There is one rule which I have hitherto prac- 
tised, and which I shall invariably keep with 
you, and that is, honestly to tell you the plain 
truth. There is something so mean and un- 
manly in the arts of dissimulation and falsehood, 
that I am surprised they can be used by any one 
in so noble, so generous a passion as virtuous 
love. No, my dear Eliza, I shall never endea- 
vour to gain your favour by such detestable 
practices. If you will be so good and so gener- 
ous as to admit me for your partner, your com- 
panion, your bosom friend through life ; there 
is nothing on this side of eternity shall give me 
greater transport ; but I shall ney^r think of 
purchasing your hand by any arts unworthy of 
a man, and I will add of a Christian. There is 
one thing, my dear, which I earnestly request of 
you, and it is this ; that you would soon either 
put an end to my hopes by a peremptory refusal, 
or cure me of my fears by a generous consent. 

It would oblige me much if you would send 
me a line or two when convenient. I shall on- 
ly add further, that if a behaviour regulated 
(though perhaps but very imperfectly) by the 
rules of honour and virtue, if a heart devoted to 
love and esteem you, and an earnest endeavour 
to promote your happiness; and if these are 
qualities you would wish in a friend, in a hus- 
band ; I hope you shall ever find them in your 
real £rieud and sincere lover. 



No. IV. 

TO THE SAME. 

I OCOHT in good manners to have acknow* 
ledged the receipt of your letter before this time, 
but my heart was so shocked with the contents 
of it, that I can scarcely yet collect my thoughts 
so as to write to you on the subject. I will not 
attempt to describe what I felt on receiving your 
letter. I read it over and over, again and again, 
and though it was in the politest language of re- 
fusal, still it was peremptory ; " you were sorry 
you could not make me a return, but you wish 
me" what, without you, I never can obtain, 
" you wish me all kind of happiness." It would 
be weak and unmanly to say, that without you I 
never caa be happy j but sure I am, that shar- 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



M9 



Sng life with you, would have given it a relish, 
that, wanting you, I never can taste. 

Your uneomraon personal advantages, and 
your superior good sense, do not so much strike 
me ; these, possibly in a few instances, may be 
met with in others ; but that umiahle goodness, 
that tender feminine softness, that endearing 
fcweetness of disposition, with all the charming 
oflspring of a warm feeling heart — these I never 
again expect to meet with in such a degree in 
this world. All these charming qualities, heigh- 
tened by an education much beyond any thing 
I have ever met with in any woman I ever dar- 
ed to approach, have made an impression on my 
heart that I do not think the world can ever ef- 
fice. My imagination has fondly flattered itself 
with a wish, I dare not say it ever reached a 
hope, that possibly I might one day call you 
mine. I had formed the most delightful images, 
and my fancy fondly brooded over them ; but 
now I am wretched for the loss of what I really 
had no right expect. I must now think no 
more of you as a mistress, still I presume to ask 
to be admitted as a friend. As such I wish to 
he allowed to wait on you, and as I expect to 
remove in a few days a little farther off, and you, 
I suppose, will perhaps soon leave this place, I 
wish to see you or hear from you soon ; and if 
an expression should perhaps escape me rather 
too warm for fi-iendship, I hope you will pardon 
it in, my dear Miss , (pardon me the dear 
expression for once.) 



LETTERS, 1783, 1784. 

No. V, 
TO MR. JOHN MURDOCH, 

SCHOOLMASTEa, 
STAPLES INN BUILDINGS, LONDON. 

SEAR SIR, Lochlee, Ibth January, 1783. 

As I have an opportunity of sending you a 
letter, without putting you to that expense 
which any production of mine would but ill re- 
pay, I embrace it with pleasure, to tell you that 
I have not forgotten, nor ever will forget, the 
many obligations I lie under to your kindness 
and friendship. 

I do not doubt. Sir, but you will wish to 
know what has been the result of all the pains 
of an indulgent father, and a masterly teacher ; 
and I wish I could gratify your curiosity with 
such a recital as you would be pleased with ; 
but that is what I am afraid will not be the case. 
I have, indeed, kept pretty clear of vicious ha- j 
bits ; and in this respect, I hope, my conduct 
will not disgrace the education I have gotten ; 
but as a man of the world, I am most miserably 
deficient. — One would have thought, that bred 
as I have been, under a father who has figured 



pretty well as un homme des affaires, I might 
have been what the world calls a pushing, ac- 
tive fellow; but, to tell you the truth, Sir, 
there is hardly any thing more my reverse. I 
seem to be one sent into the world to see, and 
observe ; and I very easily compound with the 
knave who tricks me of my money, if there be 
any thing original about him which shows me 
human nature in a different light from anything 
I have seen before. In short, the joy of my 
heart is to "study men, their manners, and their 
ways ;" and for this darling sul)iect, I cheer- 
fully sacrifice every other consideration. I am 
quite indolent about those great concerns that 
set the bustling busy sons of care agog ; and if 
I have to answer for the present hour, I am very 
easy with regard to any thing further. Even 
the last, worst shift * of the unfortunate and 
the wretched, does not much terrify me : I know 
that even then my talent for what country folks 
call " a sensible crack," when once it is sancti- 
fied by a hoary head, would procure me so much 
esteem, that even then — I would* learn to be 
happy. However, I am under no apprehensions 
about that ; for, though indolent, yet, so far as 
an extremely delicate constitution permits, I am 
not lazy ; and in many things, especially in ta- 
vern matters, I am a strict economist ; not in- 
deed for the sake of the money, but one of the 
principal parts in my composition is a kind of 
pride of stomach, and I scorn to fear the face of 
any man living : above every thing, I abhor as 
hell, the idea of sneaking in a corner to avoid a 
dun — possibly some pitiful, sordid wretch, who 
in my heart 1 despise and detest. 'Tis this, and 
this alone, that endears economy to me. In the 
matter of books, indeed, I am very profuse. My 
favourite authors are of the sentimental kind, 
such as Shenstone, particularly his Elegies; 
Thomson ; Man of Feeling, a book I prize next 
to the Bible; Man of the World; Sterne, 
especially his Sentimental Journey ; Macpher- 
son's Ossian, S^c. These are the glorious mo- 
dels after which I endeavour to form my con- 
duct ; and 'tis ineogruous, 'tis absurd, to sup- 
pose that the man whose mind glows with sen- 
timents lightened up at their sacred flame — the 
man whose heart distends with benevolence to 
all the human race — he " who can soar above 
this little scene of things," can he descend to 
mind the paltry concerns about which the terrw- 
filial race fret, and fume, and vex themselves? 

how the glorious triumph swells my heart ! 

1 forget that I am a poor insignificant devil, un- 
noticed and unknown, stalking up and down 
fiiirs and markets, when I happen to be in them, 
reading a page or two of mankind, and " catch- 
ing the manners living as they rise," whilst the 
men of business jostle me on every side as on 
idle encumbrance in their way. — But I dare say 

I have by this time tired your patience ; so I ' 
shall cuiiclude with begging you to give Mrs, 



• The lait shift alluiied to here, must be the condi 
ion ot .ui itinerant beggar 



250 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Murdoch— not my compliments, for that is a 
mere common-place story, but — my warmest, 
kindest wishes for her welfare j and accept of 
the same for yourself, from, 

Dear Sir, 

Yours, &c. 



No VI. 



[the following is taken from the MS. 
FROSE PRESENTED BV OUR BARD TO MR. 
RIDDEL.] 

On rummaging over some old papers, I light- 
ed on a MS. of my early years, in which I had 
determined to write myself out, as I was placed 
by fortune amoug a class of men to whom my 
ideas would have been nonsense. I had meant 
that the book should have lain by me, in the 
fond hope that, some time or other, even after I 
was no more, my thoughts would fall into the 
hands of somebody capable of appreciating their 
value. It sets off thus : 

Observations, Hints, SofiffS, Scraps of Poe- 
try, Sfc. hy R. S. — a man who had little art in 
making money, and still less in keeping it ; but 
was, however, a man of some sense, and a great 
deal of honesty, and unbounded good-will to 
every creature, rational and irrational. As he 
was but little indebted to scholastic education, 
and bred at a plough-tail, his performances must 
be strongly tinctured with his unpolished rustic 
way of lite ; but as I believe they are really his 
own, it may be some entertainment to a curious 
observer of human nature, to see how a plough- 
man thinks and feels, under the pressure of love, 
ambition, anxiety, grief, with the like cares and 
passions, which, however diversified by the 
modes and manners of life, operate pretty much 
alike, I believe, on all the species. 

" There are numbers in the world who do 
not want sense to make a figure, so much as an 
opinion of their own abilities, to put tliem upon 
recording their observations, and allowing them 
the same importance which they do to those 
which appear in print." — Shenstone. 

*' Pleasing, when youth is long expired, to trace 
The forms our pencil, or our pen designed ! 

Such was our youthful air, and shape, and iace, 
Such the soft image of our youthful mind." 

Ibid. 

April, 1783. 
Notwithstanding all that has been said against 
love, respecting the folly and weakness it leads 
a young inexperienced mind into ; still I think it 
in a great measure deserves the highest enco- 
miums that have been passed on it. If any 
thing on earth deserves the name of rapture or 
transport, it is the feelings of green eighteen, in 
the company of the mistress of his heart, when 



she repays him with an equal return of afieo 

tion. 



August. 

There is certainly some connection between 
love, and music, and poetry ; and, therefore, I 
have always thought a fine touch of nature, that 
passage in a modern love composition : 

" As tow'rd her cot, he jogg'd along, 
Her name was frequent in his song. " 

For my own part, ' I never had the least 
thought or inclination of turning poet, till I got 
once heartily in love ; and then rhyme and song 
were, in a manner, the spontaneous language of 
my heart. 

I 

September. 

I entirely agree with that judicious philoso- 
pher, Mr. Smith, in his excellent Theory of 
3Iural Sentiments, that remorse is the most 
painful sentiment that can embitter the human 
bosom. Any ordinary pitch of fortitude may 
bear up tolerably well, under those calamities, 
in the procurement of which we ourselves have 
had no hand ; but when our follies or crimes 
have made us miserable and wretched, to bear 
up with manly firmness, and at the same time 
have a projier penitential sense of our miscon- 
duct, is a glorious effort of self-command. 

Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace. 
That press the soul, or wring the mind with an- 
guish. 
Beyond comparison the worst are those 
That to our folly or our guilt we owe. 
In every other circumstance, the mind 
Has this to say — " It was no deed of mine ;" 
Bat when to all the evil of misfortune 
This sting is added — " Blame thy foolish self!" 
Or worser far, the pangs of keen remorse ; 
The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilts 
Of guilt, perhaps, where we've involved others , 
The young, the innocent, who fondly loved us. 
Nay, more, that very love their cause of ruin ! 
O burning hell ! in all thy store of torments. 
There's not a keener lash ! 
Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heart 
Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime. 
Can reason down its agonizing throbs ; 
And, after proper purpose of amendment. 
Can firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace I 
O, happy ! happy ! enviable man ! 
O glorious magnanimity of soul. 



Marcit, 1784.. 

I have often observed, in the course of my 

experience of human life, that every man, even 

the worst, has something good about him ; 

though very often nothing else than a happy 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



251 



temperament of constitution inclining him to 
this or that virtue. For this reason, no man 
can say in what degree any other person, be- 
sides himself, can be, with strict justice, called 
wicked. Let any of the strictest character for 
regularity of conduct among us, examine im- 
jiartially how many vices he has never been 
guilty of, not from any care or vigilance, but 
for want of opportunity, or some accidental cir- 
cumstance intervening; how many of the weak- 
nesses of mankind he has escaped, because he 
was out of the line of such temptation ; and, 
what often, if not always weighs more than all 
the rest, how much he is indebted to the world's 
good o])inion, because the world does not kpow 
ii)l ; I say, any man who can thus think, will 
scjin the failings, nay, the faults and crimes, of 
mankind around him, with a brother's eye. 

I have often courted the acquaintance of 
that part of mankind commonly known by the 
ordiiiiiry phrase of blackguards, sometimes far- 
ther than was consistent with the safety of my 
character ; those who, by thoughtless prodiga- 
lity or headstrong passions, have been driven 
to ruin. Though disgraced by follies, nay, 
sometimes " stained with guilt, .... 
. . . ," I have yet found among them, 
in not a few instances, some of the noblest vir- 
tues, magnanimity, generosity, disinterested 
fiicndship, and even modesty. 



April. 
As I am what the men of the world, if they 
Icnew such a man, would call a whimsical mor- 
tal, I have various sources of pleasure and en- 
joyment, which are, in a manner, peculiar to 
myself, or some here and there such other out- 
of-the-way person. Such is the peculiar plea- 
sure I take in the sea^^on of winter, more than 
the rest of the year. This, I believe, may be 
partly owing to my misfortunes giving my 
mind a melaucholy cast : but there is some- 
thing even in the 

" Mighty tempest, and the hoary waste 
Abrupt and deep, stretch'd o'er the buried 
eaith," — 

which raises the mind to a serious sublimity, 
fav4)urable to every thing great and noble. 
There is scarcely any earthly object gives me 
more — I ilo not know if I should call it plea- 
sure — but something which exalts me, some- 
thing which enraptures me — than to walk in 
the kheltered side of the wood, or high planta- 
tion, in a cloudy winter-day, and hear the 
stormy wind howling among the trees, and 
raving over the plain. It is my best season 
for devotion : my mind is wrapt up in a kind 
of enthusiasm to Him, who, in the pompous 
language of the Hebrew bard, " walks on the 
wings of the wind." In one of these seasons, 



just after a train of misfortunes, I composed 
the following : 

The wintry west extends hig blast, &c. 
See Songs. 

Shenstone finely observes, that loTe-verses, 
writ without any real passion, are the most 
nauseous of all conceits ; and I have often 
thought that no man can be a proper critic of 
love-composition, except he himself, in one or 
more instances, have been a warm votary of 
this passion. As I have been all along a 
miserable dupe to love, and have been led into 
a thousand weaknesses and follies by it, for 
that reason I put the more confidence in my 
critical skill, in distinguishing foppery, and con-, 
celt, from real passion and nature. Whether 
the following song will stand the test, I will 
not pretend to say, because it is my own ; only 
I can say it was at the time, genuine from the 
heart. 



Behind yon hills, &c. 



See Songs. 



I think the whole species of young men may 
be naturally enough divided into two grand 
classes, which I shall call the grave and the 
merry ; though, by the bye, these terms do not 
with propriety eiibugh express my ideas. The 
grave I shall cast into the usual division of 
those who are goailod on by the love of money, 
and those whose darling wish is to make a 
figure in the world. The merry are, the men 
of pleasure of all denonuuations ; the jovial 
lads, who have too much fire and spirit to have 
any settled rule of action ; but without much 
deliberation, follow the strong impulses of na- 
ture ; the thoughtless, the careless, the indo- 
lent — in particular he, who, with a happy 
sweetness of natural temper, and a cheerful va- 
cancy of thought, steals through life — generally, 
indeed, in poverty and obscurity ; but poverty 
and obscurity are only evils to him who can 
sit gravely down and make a repining compa- 
rison between his own situation and that of 
others ; and lastly to grace the quorum, such 
are, generally, those heads are capable of all 
the towpjings of genius, and whose hearts are 
warmed with all the delicacy of feeling. 



As the grand end of human life is to cultivate 
an intercourse with that Being to whom we 
owe life, with every enjoyment that can render 
life delightful ; and to maintain an intcgritive 
conduct towards our fellow-creatures ; that so, 
by forming piety and virtue into habit, we may 
be fit members for that society of the pious and 
the good, which reason and revelation teach ui 
to expect beyond the grave : I do not see that 
the turn of mind, and pursuits of any son of po- 
verty and obsourity, are in the least more iuimi- 



252 



BURNS' WORKS. 



cal to tlie sacred interests of piety and virtue, 
than the, even lawful, bustling and straining 
after the world's riches and honours ; and I do 
not see but that he may gain Heaven as well 
(which, by the bye, is no mean consideration), 
who steals through the vale of life, amusing 
himself with every little flower that fortune 
throws in his way ; as he who, straining straight 
forward, and perhaps I)espatteritjg ail about him, 
gains some of life's little eminences ; where, af- 
ter all, he can only see, and be seen, a little more 
conspicuously, than what, in the pride of his 
heart, he is apt to term the poor, indolent devil 
he has left behind him. 



Tliere is a noble sublimity, a heart-melting 
tenderness, in some of our ancient ballads, which 
shows them to be the work of a masterly hand : 
and it has often given me many a heart-ache to 
reflect, that such glorious old bards — bards who 
very probably owed all their talents to native 
genius, yet have described the exploits of he- 
roes, the pangs of disappointment, and the melt- 
ings of love, with such fine strokes of nature — 
that their very names (O how mortifying to a 
bard's vanity!) are now " buried among the 
wreck of things which vfere." 

O ye illustrious names unknown ! who could 
feel so strongly and describe so well ; the last, 
the meanest of the muses' train — one who, 
though far inferior to your flights, yet eyes your 
path, and with trembling wing would sometimes 
soar after you — a poor rustic bard unknown, 
pays this sympathetic pang to your memory ! 
Some of you tell us, with all the charms of 
verr-e, that you have been unfortunate in the 
world — unfortunate in love : he too has felt the 
loss of his little fortune, the loss of friends, and, 
worse than all, the loss of the woman he adored. 
Like you, all his consolation was his muse : she 
taught him in rustic measures to complain. 
Happy could he have done it with your strength 
of imagination and flow of verse ! May the turf 
lie lightly on your bones ! and may you now 
enjoy that solace and rest which this world sel- 
dom gives to the heart, tuned to all the feelings 
of poesy and love ! 



This is all worth quoting in my MSS., and 
more than all. 

R. B. 



LETTERS, 1786. 

No. VII. 
TO MR. JOHN RICHMOND, Edinburgh. 

MY DEAR SIR, Mossgiel, Feb. 17, 1786. 
I HAVE not time at present to upbraid you 



for your silence and neglect ; I shall only say I 
received yours with great pleasure. I have en- 
closed you a piece of rhyming ware for your 
perusal. I have been very busy with the muses 
since I saw you, and have composed, among se- 
veral others, The Ordination, a poem on Mr. 
M'Kinlay's being called to Kilmarnock ; Scotch 
Drink, a poem ; The Cutter's Saturday Night; 
An Address to the Devil, &c. I have likewise 
completed my poem on the Dogs, but have not 
shewn it to the vioikl. My chief patron now 
is Mr. Aiken in Ayr, who is pleased to express 
great approbation of my, works. Be so good as 
send me Fergusson, by Connel,* and I will re- 
mit you the money. I have no news to ac- 
quaint you with about Mauchline, they are just 
going on in the old way. I have some very im- 
portant news with respect to myself, not the 
most agreeable, news that I am sure you cannot 
guess, but I shall give you the particulars an- 
other time. I am extremely happy with Smith ;■(• 
he is the ouly friend I have liow in Mauchline. 
I can scarcely forgive your long neglect of me, 
and I beg you will let me hear from you regu- 
larly by Connel. If you would act your part as 
a FRIEND, I am sure neither good nor bad for- 
tune should strange or alter tae. Excuse haste, 
as I got yours but yesterday. — I am, 
IVIy deal- Sir, 
Yours, 
ROBt. BURNESS-t 



No. VIII. 
TO MR. M'WHINNIE, Writer, Ayr. 

Mossgiel, nth April, 1786. 

It is injuring some hearts, those hearts that 
elegantly bear the impression of the good Ciea- 
tor, to say to them you give them the trouble 
of obliging a friend ; for this reason, I only tell 
you that I gratify my own feelings in requesting 
your friendly cflices with respect to the enclosed, 
because I know it will gratify yours to assist 
me in it to the utmost of your power. 

I have sent you four copies, as I have no less 
than eight dozen, wliich is a great deal more 
than I shall ever need. 

Be sure to remember a poor poet militant in 
your prayers. He looks forward with fear and 
trembling to that, to him, important moment 



• ConnfZ— the Mauchline carrier. 

t Mr. James Smith, then a shojvkeeper in Maucli. 
line. It was to this young man that Bums addressed 
one of his finest performances—" To J. S " be- 

ginning 

" Dear S , the sleest, paukie thief." 

He died in the West-Indies. 

t This is the only letter the Editor has met with in 
which the Poet adds the termination es) to his name, 
as his father and family had spelled it. 



CORRESPONDEJ^CE. 



ZhS 



which stamps the die with — ^with — with, per- 
haps the eternal disgrace of, 
My dear Sir, 
You humbled, 
afflicted, 
tormented 

robt. burns. 



No. IX. 



TO MONS. JAMES SMITH, Mauchune. 
Monday Morning, Mossgiel, 1786. 

MT DEAR SIR, 

I WENT to Dr. Douglas yesterday fully re- 
solved to take the opportunity of Capt, Smith ; 
but I found the Doctor with a Mr. and Mrs. 
White, both Jamaicans, and they have deranged 
my plans altogether. They assure him that to 
send me from Savannah la Mar to Port Antonio 
will cost my master, Charles Douglas, upwards 
of fifty pounds ; besides running the risk of 
throwing myself into a pleuritic fever in conse- 
quence of hard travelling in the sun. On these 
accounts, he refuses sending me with Smith, but 
a vessel sails from Greenock the first of Sept, 
right for the place of my destination. The Cap- 
tain of her is an intimate of Mr. Gavin Hamil- 
ton's, and as good a fellow as heart could wish : 
with him I am destined to go. Where I shall 
shelter, I know not, but I hope to weather the 
storm. Perish the drop of blood of mine that 
fears them ! I know their worst, and am pre- 
pared to meet it. — 

I'll laugh, an' sing, an' shake my leg, 
As lang's I dow. 

On Thursday morning, if you can muster as 
Quch self-denial as to be out of bed about seven 
o'clock, I shall see you as I ride through to 
Cumnock. After all, Heaven bless the sex ! 
1 feel there is still happiness for me among 
them. — 

O woman, lovely woman ! Heaven designed you 
To temper man ! we had been brutes without 
you! 



No. X. 

TO JIR. DAVID BRICE. 

DEAR BRICE, Mossgiel, June 12, 1786. 

I RECEIVED your message by G. Paterson, 
and as I am not very throng at present, I just 
write to let you know that there is such a worth- 
less, rhyming reprobate, as your humble seiTant, 
still in the laud of the living, though I can 
K«rc«ly e»Y, in the place of hope, I hare no 



news to tell you that will give me any pleasure 
to mention or you to hear. 



And now for a grand cure ; the ship is on her 
way home that is to take me out to Jamaica ; 
and then, farewell dear old Scotland, and fare- 
well dear ungrateful Jean, for never, never will 
I see you more. 

You will have heard that I am going to com- 
mence Poet in print ; and to-morrow my works 
go to the jiress. I expect it will be a volume of 
about two hundred pages — it is just the last fooi- 
ish action I intend to do ; and then turn a wise 
man as fast as possible. 

Believe me to be. 

Dear Brick, 
Your friend and well-wisher. 



No. XI. 



TO MR. AIKEN 

(the GENTLEMAN TO WHOM THE COTTEr's 
SATURDAY NIGHT IS ADDRESSED.) 

SIB, Ayrshire, 1786. 

I WAS with Wilson, my printer, t'other day, 
and settled all our by-gone matters between us. 
After I had paid him all demands, I made him 
the ofTor of the second edition, on the hazard of 
being paid out of the Jirst and readiest, which 
he declines. By his account, the paper of a 
thousand copies would cost about twenty-seven 
pounds, and the printing about fifteen or six- 
teen : he oflfei-s to agree to this for the printing, 
if I will advance for the paper ; but this you 
know, is out of my power ; so farewell hopes 
of a second edition till I grow richer ! — an 
epoeha which, I think, will arrive at the pay- 
ment of the British national debt. 

There is scarcely any thing hurts me so much 
in being disappointed of my second edition, as 
not having it in my power to show my grati- 
tude to Mr. Ballantyne, by publishing my poem 
of TJie Srigs of Ayr. I would detest myself 
as a wretch, if I thought I were capable, in a 
very long life, of forgetting the honest, warm, 
and tender delicacy with which he enters into 
my interests. I am sometimes pleased with my- 
self in my grateful sensations ; but I believe, on 
the whole, I have very little merit in it, as my 
gratitude is not a virtue, the consequence of re- 
flection, but sheerly the instinctive emotion of a 
heart too inattentive to allow worldly maxima 
and views to settle into selfish habits. 

I have been feeling all the various rotations 
and movements within, respecting the excise. 
There are many things plead strongly against it ; 
the uncertainty of getting soon into business, the 
consequences of my follies, which may perhaps 
make it impracticable for me to eta^ Rt home ; 



fi54 



BURNS* WORKS. 



tnd besides, I have for some time been pining 
under secret wretchedness, from causes which 
you pretty well know — the pang of disappoint- 
ment, the sting of pride, with some wandering 
stabs of remorse, which never fail to settle on 
my vitals like vultures, when attention is not 
cidled away by the calls of society or tlie vaga- 
ries of the muse. Even in the hour of social 
mirth, my gaiety is the madness of an intoxica- 
ted criminal under the hands of the executioner. 
All these reasons urge me to go abroad ; and to 
all these reasons I have only one answer — the 
feelings of a father. This, in the present mood 
I am in, overbalances every thing that can be 
laid in the scale against it. 



gressive struggle ; and that, however I might 
possess a warm heart and inoffensive manners 
(which last, by the bye, was rather more than 
I could well boast), still, more than these pas- 
sive qualities, there was something to be done. 
When all my school-fellows and youthful com- 
peers (those misguided few excepted, who join- 
etf, to use a Gentoo phrase, the hallachores of 
the human race), were striking off with eager 
hope and earnest intent on some one or other 
of the many paths of busy life, I was " stand- 
ing idle in the market place," or only left the 
chase of the butterfly from flower to flower, to 
hunt fancy from whim to whim. 



You may perhaps think it an extravagant 
fancy, but it is a sentiment which strikes home 
to my very soul : though sceptical, in some 
points, of our current belief, yet, I think, I have 
every evidence for the reality of a life beyond 
the stinted bourne of our present existence ; if 
so, then how should I, in the presence of that 
tremendous Being, the Author of existence, how 
should I meet the reproaches of those who stand 
to me in the dear relation of children, whom I 
deserted in the smiling innocency of helpless in- 
fancy ? O, thou great unknown Power ! thou 
Almighty God ! who hast lighted up reason in 
my breast, and blessed me with immortality ! I 
have frequently wandered from that order and 
regularity necessary for the perfection of thy 
works, yet thou hast never left me nor forsaken 
me! 



Since I wrote the foregoing sheet, I have 
seen something of the storm of mischief thick- 
ening over my folly-devoted head. Should you, 
my friends, my benefactors, be successful in 
your applications for me, perhaps it may not be 
in my power in that way to reap the fiTjit of 
your friendly efforts. What I have written in 
the preceding pages is the settled tenor of my 
present resolution; but should inimical cir- 
cumstances forbid me closiug with your kind 
offer, or, enjoying it, only threaten to entail 
farther misery— 



To tell the truth, I have little reason for 
this last complaint, as the world, in general, 
has been kind to me, fully up to my deserts. 
I was, fur some time past, fast getting into the 
pining distrustful snarl of the misanthrope. I 
«aw myself alone, unfit for the struggle of life, 
■hrinking at every rising cloud in the chance- 
directed atmosphere of fortune, while, all de- 
fenceless, I looked about in vain for a cover 
It never occurred to me, at least never with the 
force it deserved, that this world is a busy 
•cene, and man a creature destined for a pro 



You see, Sir, that if to know one's errors 
were a probability of mending them, I stand a 
fair chance; but, according to the reverend 
Westminster divines, though conviction must 
precede conversion, it is very far from always 
implying it."* 



No. XII. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP, OF DUNLOP. 

MADAM, Ayrshire, 1786. 

I AM truly sorry I was not at home yesterday, 
when I was so much honoured with your order 
for my copies, and incomparably more by the 
handsome compliments you are pleased to pay 
my poetic abilities. I am fully persuaded that 
there is not any class of mankind so feelingly 
alive to the titillations of applause as the sons 
of Parnassus ; nor is it easy to conceive how 
the heart of the poor bard dances with rapture, 
when those whose character in life gives them 
a right to be polite judges, honour him with 
their approbation. Had you been thoroughly 
acquainted with me. Madam, you could not 
have touched my darling heart-chord more 
sweetly than by noticing my attempts to cele- 
brate your illustrious ancestor, the Saviour of 
his Country. 

" Great, patriot hero ! ill-requited chief." 

The first book I met with in my early years, 
which I perused with pleasure, was The Life 
of Hannibal : the next was The History of 
Sir William Wallace : for several of my ear- 
lier years I had few other authors ; and many a 
solitary hour have I stole out, after the labori- 
ous vocations of the dav, to shed a tear over 
their glorious but unfortunate stories. In those 
boyish days I remember in particular being 



• Tlii5 letter was evidently written anderthedii- 
tress of mind occasioned by our Poefs separation from 
Mrs. Burns. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



S55 



itruek with that part of Wallace's story where 
these lines occur— 

" Syne to the Leglen wood, when 5t was late, 
To make a silent and a safe retreat." 

I chose a fine summer Sunday, the only day 
my line of life allowed, and walked half a dozen 
of miles to pay my respects to the Leglen wood, 
with as much devout enthusiasm as ever pil- 
grim did to Loretto ; and, as I explored every 
<len and dell where I could suppose my heroic 
countryman to have lodged, I recollect (for 
even then I was a rhymer ), that my heart glow- 
ed with a wish to be able to make a song on 
him in some measure equal to his merits. 



No. XIII. 
TO MRS. STEWART, OF STAIR. 

MADAM, 1786. 

The hurry of my preparations for going a- 
broad has hindered me from performing my pro- 
mise so soon as I intended. I have here sent you 
a parcel of songs, &c. which never made their 
appearance, except to a friend or two at most. 
Perhaps some of them may be no great enter- 
tainment to you : but of that I am far from be- 
ing an adequate judge. The song to the tune 
of JEttrkh Sanlis, you will easily see the impro- 
priety of exposing much even in manuscript. 
I think, myself, it has some merit, both as a to- 
lerable description of one of Nature's sweetest 
scenes, a July evening, and one of the finest 
pieces of Nature's workminshi]), the finest in- 
deed we know any thing of, an amiable, beauti- 
ful young woman ;• but I have no common 
friend to procure me that permission, without 
which I would not dare to spread the copy. 

I am quite aware, IMadara, what task the 
world would assign me in this letter. The ob- 
scure bard, when any of the great condescend 
to take notice of 'aim, should heap the altar with 
the incense of flattery. Their high ancestry, 
their own great and godlike qualities and actions, 
should be recounted with the most exaggerated 
description. This, Madam, is a task for which 
I am altogether unfit. Besides a certain dis- 
qualifying pride of heart, I know nothing of 
your connections in life, and have no access to 
where your real character is to be found — the 
company of your compeers : and more, I am a- 
fraid that even the most refined adulation is by 
no means the road to your good opinion. 

One feature of your character I shall ever 
with grateful pleasure remember — the reception 
I got, when I had the honour of waiting on you 
at Stair, I am little acquainted with politeness ; 
but I know a go»d deal of benevolence of tem- 
per and goodness of heart. Surely, did those in 
exalted stations know how happy they could 
make some classes of their inferiors by conde- 



scension and affability, they would never stand 
so high, measuring out with every look the 
height of their elevation, but condescend as 
sweetly as did Mrs. Stewart of Stair.* 



No. XIV. 



DR. BLACKLOCK 



THE REVEREND MR. G. LOWRIE, 

REVJCRKNl) ANn DEAR SIR, 

I OUGHT to have acknowledged your favour 
long ago, iiot only as a testimony of your kind 
rememi)rante, hut as it gave me an opportunity of 
sharing oi;e of the finest, and, i)erhaps, one of the 
most genuine entertainments, of which the human 
mind is susce}itible. A. number of avocations re- 
tarded my progress in reading the poems ; at last, 
however, I have finished tliat pleasing perusal. 
Many instances have I seen of Nature's force and 
beneficence exerted under numerous and formid- 
able disadvantages ; but none equal to that with 
which you have been kind enough to present me. 
There is a pathos and delicacy in his serious 
poems, a vein of wit and humour in those of a 
more festive turn, which cannot be too much 
admired, nor too warmly approved ; and I think 
I shall never open the book without feeling my 
astonishment renewed and increa-ed. It was my 
wish to have expressed my approbation in verse ; 
but whether from declining life, or a temporary 
depression of spirits, it is at present out of my 
power to accomplish that agreeable intention. 

Mr. Stewart, Professor of Morals in this Uni- 
versity, had formerly read me three of the poems, 
and I hail desired him to get my name inserted 
among the subscribers ; but whether this was 
done, or not, I never could learn. I have little 
intercourse with Dr. Blair, but will take care 
to have the poems communicated to him by the 
intervention of some nuitual friend. It has been 
told me by a gentleman, to whom I showed the 
performances, and who sought a copy with dili- 
gence and ardour, that the whole impression is 
already exhausted. It were, therefore, much to 
be wished, for the sake of the young man, that 
a second edition, more numerous than the former, 
could immediately be printed ; as it appears cer- 
tain that its intrinsic merit, and the exertion of 
the author's friends, might give it a more uni- 
versal circulation than any thing of the kind 
which has been published within my memory. •)• 



• The song encloseil is that given in the Life of our 
Poet; beginning, 

'Twos e'en — the dewy fields were green, tie. 

f- Toe reader will perceive tliat this is tlie letter 
which produced the determination of our Bard to give 
up his scheme of ai>>"g to the West Indies, and to try 
tJie fate of a new edition of liis nocms in Kdinburgh. 
A copy of this letter was sent by Mr. I.owrie to Mr. G. 
Hamilton, and by him I'omniunicated to Bums, amouj; 
whose iiai>crs it was fuuud. 



256 



BURNS' WORKS. 



No. XV. 

FROM SIR JOHN WHITEFORD. 

BiR, EdinhurgJi, 4th December, 1786. 

I RECEIVED your letter a fe<^ days ago. I do 
not pretend to much interest, but what I have 
I shall be ready to exert in procuring the attain- 
ment of any object you have in view. Your 
character as a man (forgive my reversing your 
order), as well as a poet, entitle you, I think, to 
the assistance of every inhabitant of Ayrshire. 
I have been told you wished to be made a gan- 
ger ; I submit it to your consideration, whether 
it would not be more desirable, if a sum could 
be raised by subscription, for a- second edition of 
your poems, to lay it out in the stocking of a 
small farm. I am persuaded it would be a line 
of life, much more agreeable to your feelings, and 
in the end more satisfactory. When you have 
considered this, let me know, and whatever you 
determine upon, I will endeavour to promote as 
far as my abilities will permit. With compli- 
ments to my friend the doctor, I am. 

Your friend and well-wisher, 
JOHN WHITEFORD. 

P. S. — I shall take it as a favour when you 
tx any time send me a new production. 



No. XVI. 

FROM THE REV. ]MR. G. LOWRIE. 

DEAR SIR, 22d Dece7nber, 1766. 

1 LAST week received a letter from Dr. Black 
lock, in which he expresses a desire of seeing 
you. I write this to you, that you may lose no 
time in waiting upon him, should you not yet 
have seen him. 



I rejoice to hear, from all corners, of your 
rising fame, and I wish and expect it may tower 
still higher by the new publication. But, as a 
friend, I warn you to prepare to meet with your 
share of detraction and envy — a train that al- 
ways accompany great men. For your comfort, 
I am in great hopes that the uuniber of your 
friends and admirers will increase, and that you 
have some chance of ministerial, or even ♦ * • • 
patrouage. Now, my friend, such rapid success 
is very uncommon : and do you think yourself 
in no danger of suffering by applause and a full 
purse ? Remember Solomon's advice, which he 
spoke from experience, " stronger is he that con- 
quers," &c. Keep fast hold of your rural sim- 
plicity and purity, like Telemachus, by Mentor's 
aid, in Calypso's isle, or even in that of Cyprus. 
I hope you have also Minerva with you. I 
need not tell you how much a modest diffidence 
ftod invincible temperance adorn the most shin- 



ing talents, and elevate the mind, and exalt tad 
refine the imagination even of a poet. 

I hope you will not imagine I speak from 
suspicion or evil report. I assure you I speak 
from love and good report, and good opinion, 
and a strong desire to see you shine as much in 
the sunshine as you have done in the shade, and 
in the practice as you do in the theory of virtue. 
This is my prayer, in return for your elegant 
composition in verse. All here join in compli- 
ments, and good wishes for your further proi- 
perity. 



No. xvn. 

TO GAVIN HAMILTON, Esq. ; 

UAUCHLINX. 

Edinburgh, Dec. 7, 1786. 

HONOURED SIR, 

I HAVE paid every attention to your com- 
mands, but can only say what perhaps you will 
have heard before this reach you, that Muir- 
kirklands were bought by a John Gordon, W. S. 
but for whom I know not ; Mauchlands, Haugh 
Miln, &c, by a Frederick Fotheringham, sup- 
posed to be for Ballochmyle Laird, and Adam- 
hill and Shawood were bought for Oswald's 
fjlks. — This is so imperfect an account, and will 
be so late ere it reach you, that were it not to 
discharge my conscience I would not trouble 
you with it j but after all my diligence I could 
make it no sooner nor better. 

For my own afiairs, I am in a fair way of be- 
coming as eminent as Thomas a Kempis or John 
Bunyan ; and you may expect henceforth to see 
my birth-day inserted among the wonderful 
events, in the poor Robin's and Aberdeen Al- 
manacks, along with the Black Monday, and the 
battle of Bothwell Bridge — My lord Glencaim 
and the Dean of Faculty, Mr. H. Erskine, have 
taken me under their wing ; and by all proba- 
bility I shall soon be the tenth worthy, and the 
eighth wise man of the world. Through lay 
lord's influence it is inserted in the records of 
the Caledonian hunt, that they universally, one 
and all, subscribe for the second edition. — ^My 
subscription bills come out to-morrow, and you 
shall have some of them next post. — I have met 
in Mr. Dalrymple, of Orangefield, what Solomon 
emphatically calls, " A friend that sticketh 
closer than a brother." — The warmth with 
which he interests himself in my affairs is of the 
same enthusiastic kind which you, Mr. Aiken, 
and the few patrons that took notice of my ear- 
lier poetic days, shewed for the poor unluckjr 
devil of a poet. 

I always remember Mrs. Hamilton and Miti 
Kennedy in my poetic prayers, but yoK both in 
prose and verse. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



267 



May cauld ne'er catch you but • a liap, 
Nor hunger but ia plenty's lap ! 
Amen ! 



No, XVIII. 
TO DR. M'KENZIE, Mauchline. 

(enclosing him the extempore vekses on 
dining with lord daer.) 

SEAK SIR, Wednesday 3Iorning, 

I NEVER spent an afternoon among great 
folks with half that pleasure as wlien, in com- 
pany with you, I had the honour of paying iiiy 
devoirs to that plain, honest, worthy man, the 
professor. j- I would be delighted to see him 
perform acts of kindness and friendship, though 
I were not the object ; he does it with such a 
grace. I think his character, divided into ten 
parts, stands thus-r— four parts Socrates — four 
parts Nathaniel — and two parts Shakespeare's 
Brutus. 

The foregoing verses were really extempore, 
but a little conected since. They may L-iiter- 
tain you a little with the help of that partiality 
with which you are so good as favour the per- 
formances of 

Dear Sir, 

Your very humble Servant. 



No. XIX. 

TO JOHN BALLANTINE, Esq. Banker, 
Ayr. 
Edinburgh, i 3th Dec. J7SG. 

JIT HONOURED FRIEND, 

I WOULD not write you till I could liave It 
la my power to give you some account of my- 
self and my matters, which by the bye is often 
no easy task — I arrived here on Tuesday was 
ge'nnight, and have suffered ever since I came 
to town with a miserable head-ache and 
stomach complaint, but am now a good deal 
better. — I have found a worthy warm friend in 
Mr. Dalrymple, of Orangefield, who introduced 
me to Lord Glencairr;, a man whose worth and 
brotherly kindness to me, I shall remember 

when time shall be no more By his interest it 

is passed in the Caledonian hunt, and entered 
in their books, that they are to take each a 
copy of the second edition, for which they are 
to pay one guinea — I have been introduced to 
a good many of the Noblesse, but my avowed 
patrons and patronesses are, the Duchess of 



• " But" is frequently used lot 
vU/u>ut dothvia. 
\ Professor JJugaklSlcwaxt. 



' witliout ;" t c 



Gordon — The Countess of Glencairn, with my 
Loid, and Lady Betty* — The Dean of Faculty 
— Sir John Whitefoord. — I have likewise warm 
friends among the literati ; Professors Stewart, 
Blair, and Mr. JM'Kenzie — the Man of Feeling. 
— An unknown hand left ten guineas for the 
Ayrshire bard with IMr. Sibbald, which I got. 
— I since have discovered my generous unknown 
fi iend to be Patrick Miller, Esq. brother to the 
Justice Clerk ; and drank a glass of claret with 
him by invitation at his own house yesternight. 
I am nearly agreed with Creech to print my 
book, and I suppose I will begin on Monday. I 
will send a subscription bill or two, next post ; 
when I intend writing my first kind pation, 
IMr. Aiken. I saw his son to-day and he is 
very well. 

Diigald Stewart, and some of my learned 
friends, put me in the periodical paper called 
the Lounger,! a copy of which I here enclose 
you — I was, Sir, when I was first honoured with 
your notice, too obscure ; now 1 tremble lest I 
shoulil be ruined by lieing dragged too suddenly 
into the glare of polite and le.irned observation. 

I shall certainly, my ever honoured patron, 
write you an account of my every step ; and 
better health and more spirits may enable me to 
make it something better than this stupid mat- 
ter of fact epistle. 

I have the honour to be. 
Good Sir, 
Your ever grateful humble Servant. 

If any of my friends write me, my directioa 
is, care of Mr. Creech, bookseller. 



No. XX. J 
TO MR. WILLIAJI CHALMERS, 

Writer, Ayr. 

Edinburgh, Dec. 27, 1786. 

MT DEAR FRIEND, 

I CONFESS I have sinned the sin for which 
there is hardly any forgiveness — ingratitude to 
h'iendship — in not writing you sooner ; but of 
all men living, I had intended to send you an 
entertaining letter ; and by all the plodding, 
stupid powors, ,that in nodding, conceited ma- 
jesty, preside over the dull routine of business — 
A heavily-solemn oath tliis ! — I am, and have 
been, ever since I came to Edinburgh, as unfit 
to write a letter of humour, as to write a com- 
mentary on the Revelation of St. John the Di- 
vine, who was banished to tiie Isle of Patmos, 
by the cruel and bloody Domitian, son to Ves- 
pasian and brother to Titus, both emperors of 
Rome, and who was himself an emperor, and 



• I.nily Detty CunninRlinm. 

♦ llic iLiper here alludi-il to, w.-is written by Mr. 
M'Kciizic, Uie celebrated author of the Man of FefJ. 
iijg. 

I Tliij letter is uo'.v prcscutctl entiie. 

53 



m 



BURNS* WORKS. 



r&tsed the Beconii or tkird persecution, I forget 
Vfhlch, against the Christians, and after throw- 
ing the said Apostle John, brother to the Apostle 
James, commonly called James the greater, to 
distinguish him from another James, who was, 
on some account or other, known by the name 
of James the less, after thidwing him into a 
caldron of boiling oil, from which he was mi- 
raculously preserved, he banished the poor son 
of Zebedee, to a desert island in the Archipe- 
lago, where he was gifted with the second sight, 
and saw as many wild beasts as I have seen 
since I came to Edinburgh ; which, a circum- 
stance not very uncommon in story- telling, 
brings me back to where I set out. 

To make you some amends for what, before 
you reach this paragraph, you will have suffer- 
ed ; I enclose you two poems I have carded and 
spun since I past Glenbuck. 

One blank in the address to Edinburgh — 
" Fair B ," is heavenly Miss Burnet, daugh- 
ter to Lord Monboddo, at whose house I have 
had the honour to be more than once. 

There has not been any thing nearly like her, 
in all the combinations of beauty, grace, and 
goodness, the Great Creator has formed, since 
Milton's Eve on the first day of her existence. 

My direction is — care of Andrew Bruce, mer- 
chant, Bridge-Street. 



LETTERS, 1787. 

No. XXI. 
TO JOHN BALLANTINE, Esq. 

Edinburgh, Jan. H, 1787. 

M\ HONOURED FRIEND, 

li gives me a secret comfort to observe in 
myself that I am not yet so far gone as Willie 
Gaw's skate, " past redemption ;"* for I have 
still this favourable symptom of grace, that when 
my conscience, as in the case of this letter, tells 
me I am leaving something undone that I ought 
to do, it teazes me eternally till I do it. 

I am still " dark as was chaos" in respect to 
futurity. My generous friend, Mr. Patrick Mil- 
ler, has been talking T^-ith uie about a lease of 
some farm or other in an estate called Dalswin- 
ton, which he has lately bought near Dumfries. 
Some life-rented embittering recollections whis- 
per me that I will be hajipier any where than 
in my old neighbourhood, but I\Ir. JMiller is no 
judge of land ; and though I dare say he means 
to favour me, yet he may give me, in his opi- 
nion, an advantageous bargain, that liSay ruin 
me. I am to take a tour by Dumfries as I re- 
turn, and have promised to meet ]\Ir. Miller on 
his lands some time in May. 



• This is one of a prcat number of oM savts that 
Bums, when a lad, had picked up from liis mother, 
Vf which the good old woman had a vast collection. 



I went to a Masotj-lodge yesternight, wliera 
the tttost Worshipful- Grand Master Charters, 
and all the Grand-Lodge of Scotland visited.— 
The meeting was numerous and elegant ; all the 
different Lodges about town were present, in all 
their pomp. The Grand IMaster, who presided 
with great solemnity and honour to himself as a 
gentleman and Mason, among other general 
toasts gave " Caledonia, and Caledonia's Bard, 

Brother B ,"_ which rung through the whole 

assembly with multiplied honours and repeated 
acclamations. As I had no idea such a thing 
would happen, I was downright thunder-struck, 
and trembling in every nerve made the best re- 
turn in my power. Just as I had finished, some 
of the grand officer? said, so loud that I could 
hear, with a most comforting accent, " Very 
well indeed !" which set me something to rights 
again. 



I have to-day corrected my 1 52d page. "Sfiy 
best good wishes to Mr. Aiken. 
I am ever. 
Dear Sir, 
Your much indebted humble Servant. 



No. xxn. 

TO THE EARL OF EGLINTON. 

MY LORD, Edinburgh, Jan. 1787. 

As I have but slender pretensions to philoso- 
phy, I cannot rise to the exalted ideas of a ci- 
tizen of the world j but have all those national 
prejhdices which, I believe, glow peculiarly 
strong in tjic breast of a Scotchman. There is 
scarcely any thing to which I am so feelingly 
alive, as the honour and welfare of my country ; 
and, as a poet, I have no hjgher enjoyment than 
singiu-^ her sous and daughters. Fate had cast 
my station in the veriest shades of life ; but ne- 
ver did a heart pant more ardently than mine, 
to be distinguished; though, till very lately, I 
looked in vain on every side for a ray of light. 
It is easy, then, to guess how much I was gra- 
tified with the countenance and approbation of 
one of my country's most illustrious sons, when 
I\Ir. Wauchope called on me yesterday, ou the 
part of your lordship. Your munificence, my 
lord, certainly deserves my veiy grateful ac- 
knowledgments ; but your patronage is a boun- 
ty peculiarly suited to my feelings. I am not 
master enough of the etiquette of life to know 
whether there be not some impropriety in 
troubling ^'our lordship with my thanks ; but 
ray heart whispered me to do it. From the 
emotions of my inmost soul I do it. Selfish in • 
gratitude, I hope, I am incapable of; and mer- 
cenary servility, I trust, I shall ever have so 
much honest pride as to detest. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



'i&9 



Nd. xx;n. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. f. 

AjtiTAM, Edinburgh, Ibth Jan. 1787. 

Yours of the 9th current, which I am this 
moment honoured with, is a deep reproach to 
taie for ungrateful neglect. I will tell you the 
real truth, for I am miserably awkward at a 
fib : I wished to have written to Dr. Moore 
before I wrote to you ; but though, every day 
since I received yours of December 30th, the 
idea, the wish to write him, has constantly 
pressed on my thoughts, yet I could not for my 
Eoul set about it. I know his fame and charac- 
ter, and I am one of " the sons of little men." 
To write him a mere matter-of-fact affair, like 
a merchant's order, would be disgracing the lit- 
tle character I have ; and to write the author 
of The Vino of Society and jManners a letter 
of sentiment — I declare svery artery runs cold 
at the thought. I shall try, however, to write 
him to-morrow or next day. His kind interpo- 
sition in my behalf I have already experienced, 
as a gentleman waited on me the other day, on 
the part of Lord Eglinton, with ten guineas by 
way of subscription for two copies of my next 
edition. 

The word you object to in the mention I 
have made of my glorious countryman and your 
immortal ancestor, is indeed borrowed from 
Thomson ; but it does not strike me as an im- 
proper epithet. I distrusted my own judgment 
on your finding fault with it, and applied for 
the opinion of some of the literati here, who 
honour me with their critical strictures, and 
they all allow it to l)e proper. The song you 
ask I cannot recollect, and I have not a copy of 
it. I have not composed any thing on the groat 
Wallace, except what you have seen in print, 
and the enclosed, which T will print in this edi- 
tion. • You will see I have mentioned some 
Others of the name. When I composed my 
Vision, lone; ago, I had attempted a description 
of Kyle, of which the additional stanzas are a 
part, as it originally stood. My heart glows 
with a wish to be able to do justice to the me- 
rits of the Saviour of his Coimtrij, which, 
sooner or later, I shall at least attempt. 

You are afraid I shall grow intoxicated with 
my prosperity as a poet. Alas ! JMadam, I 
know myself and the world too well. I do not 
mean any airs of aflfccted modesty ; I am wil- 
ling to believe that my abilities deserved some 
notice ; but in a most enlightened, informed 
age and nation, when poetry is and has been 
the study of men of the first natural genius, 
aided with all the powers of polite learning, 
polite books, and polite company — to be drao-- 
ged forth to the full glare of learned and polite 
observation, with all my imperfections of awk- 



• Stanzas in the Vision, beginning third stanza, 
" By stately tover or palace fair," and ending with the 
first duan. 



ward rusticity alid crude impollsked Ideas on my 
head — I assure you, Madam, I do not dissemble 
when I tell you I tremble for the consequences. 
The novelty of a poet in my obscure situatiea, 
without any of those advantages which are 
reckoned necessary for that character, at least 
at this time of day, has raised a partial tide of 
public notice, which has borne me to a height 
where I am absolutely, feelingly certain, my 
abilities are inadequate to support me ; and too 
surely do I see that time when the same tide 
will leave me, and recede, perhaps, as far below 
the mark of truth. 



Your patronizing me, and interesting your- 
self in my fame and character as a poet, I re- 
joice in ; it exalts me in my own idea ; and 
whether you can or cannot aid me* in my sub- 
scription is a trifle. Has a paltry subscription- 
bill any charms to the heart of a bard, compar- 
ed with the patronage of the descendant of the 
immortal Wallace ? 



No. XXIV. 

TO DR. MOORE. 

SIR, 1787. 

Mrs. Dunlop has been so kind as to send rac 
extracts of letters she has had from you, where 
you do the rustic bard the honour of noticing 
him and his works. Those who have felt the 
anxieties and solicitudes of authorship, can only 
know what pleasure it gives to be noticed in such 
a manner by judges of the first character. Your 
criticisms. Sir, I receive with reverence ; only, 
I am sorry they mostly came too late ; a peccant 
passage or two, that I would certainly have al- 
tered, were gone to the press. 

The hope to be admired for ages is, in by fur 
the greater part of those even who are authors 
of repute, an unsubstantial dream. For my part, 
my first ambition was, and still my strongest 
wish is, to please my compeers, the rustic in- 
mates of the hamlet, while ever changing lan- 
guage and manners shall allow me to be relished 
and understood. I am very willing to admit 
that I have some poetical abilities ; and as few, 
if any writers, either moral or poetical, are inti- 
mately acquainted with the classes of mankind 
among whom I have chiefly mingled, I may have 
seen men and manners in a difilerent phasis front 
what is common, which may assist originality 
of thought. Still I know very well the novelty 
of my character has by far the greatest share ia 
the learned and polite notice I have lately had ; 
and in a language where Pope and Churchill 
have raised the laugh, and Shonstone and Gray 
drawn the tear — where Thomson and Bcattie 
have painted the landscape, and Lyttleton and 
Collins described the heart, I am not vain e- 
nough to hope for distinguished pontic fame. 



260 



BURNS' WOIIKS. 



No. XXV. 

FROM DR. MOORE. 

in, ^Clifford Street, Jan. 23, 1757. 

I HAVE just received your letter, by which I 
find I have reasoa to complain of my friend 
Mr«. Dunlop for transmitting to you extracts 
from my letters to her, by much too freely and 
too carelessly written for your perusal. I must 
forgive her, however, in consideration of her 
good intention, as you will forgive me, I hope, 
for the freedom I use with certain expressions, 
in consideration of my admiration of the poems 
in general. If I may judge of the author's dis- 
position from his works, with all the other good 
qualities of a poet, he has not the irritable tem- 
per ascribed to that race of men by one of their 
own number, whom you have the ha))piness to 
resemble in ease and curious felicitu of expres- 
sion. Indeed the poetical beauties, however 
original and brilliant, and lavishly scattered, 
are not all I admire in your works ; the love of 
your native country, that feeling sensibility to 
all the objects of humanity, and the independent 
•pirit which breathes through the whole, give 
me a most favourable impression of the poet, 
and have made me often regret that I did not 
tee the poems, the certain effect of which would 
have been my seeing the author last summer, 
when I was longer in Scotland than I have been 
for many years. 

I rejoice very sincerely at the encouragement 
you receive at Edinburgh, and I think you pe- 
culiarly fortunate in the patronage of Dr. Blair, 
who, I am informed, interests himself very much 
for you. I beg to be remembered to him : no- 
body can have a warmer regard for that gentle- 
Oian than I have, which, independent of the 
worth of his character, woOld be kept alive by 
the memory of our common friend, the late Mr. 

George B e. 

Before I received your letter, I sent enclosed 
in a letter to , a sonnet by Miss Wil- 
liams, a young poetical lady, which she wrote 
on reading your Mountain-Daisy; perhaps it 
may not displease you. * 

1 have been trying to add to the number of 
your subscribers, but I find many of my ac- 
quaintance are already among them. I have 
only to add, that with every sentiment of es- 
teem, and most cordial good wishes, 
I atn. 

Your obedient humble servant, 
J. MOORE. 



• The sonnet is as follows :— 

While soon the garden's flaunting flowers de- 
cay, 

And scattered on the earth neglected lie, 
The " Mountain-Daisy," cherished by the ray 

A poet drew from heaven, shall never die. 
Ah, like that lonely flower the poet rose ! 

'Mid penuiy's bare soil and bitter gale ; 



He felt each storm that on the moantain blo^fi 

Nor ever knew the shelter of the vale. 
By genius in her native vigour nurst, 

Oa nature with impassion'd look he gazed ; 
Then through the cloud of adverse fortune burat 

Indignant, and iu light unhurrow'd blazed. 
Scotia! from rude affliction shield thy bard. 

His heaven-taught numbers Fame herself will 
guard. 



No. XXVL 
TO DR. MOORE. 

siK, Edinburgh, Ibth Feb. 1787. 

Pardon my seeming neglect in delaying so 
long to acknowledge the honour you have don« 
me, in your kind notice of me, January 23d. 
Not many months ago, I knew no other em- 
ployment than following the plough, nor could 
boast any thing higher than a distant acquaint- 
ance with a country clergyman. Mere great- 
ness never embarrasses n)e : I have nothing to 
ask from the great, and I do not fear their 
judgment ; but genius, polished by learning, 
and at its proper point of elevation in the eye of 
the world, this of late I frequently meet with, 
and tremble at its approach. I scorn the afFec- 
tation of seeming modesty to cover self-conceit. 
That I have some merit I do not deny ; but I 
see, with frequent wringings of heart, that the 
novelty of my character, and the honest national 
prejudice of my countrymen, have borne me to 
a height altogether untenable to my abilities. 

For the honour i\Ilss W. has done me, pleas*. 
Sir, return her in my name, my most grateful 
thanks. I have more than once thought of pay- 
ing her in kind, but have hitherto quitted the 
idea in hopeless aespondency. I had never be- 
fore heard of her ; but the other day I got her 
poems, which, for several reasons, some belong- 
ing to the head, and others the oftspring of the 
heart, give me a great deal of pleasure. I have 
little pretensions to critic lore: there are, I 
think, two characteristic features in her poetry 

the unfettered wild flight of native genius, 

and the querulous, sombre tenderness of " timC' 
settled soirow." 

I only know what pleases me, often witbont 
beiug able to tell why. 



No. XXVII. 
TO JOHN BALLANTINE, Eso. At». 
Edinburgh, Feb. 24, 1787. 

MT HOXOUREU FRIEND, 

I wii.t. soon be with you now in guid black 
prnit ; in a week or ten days at farthest — 1 am 
obliged, against my own wish, to print sub* 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



261 



•crjbers' names, go if any of my Ayr friends 
have subscription bills, they must be sent in to 
Creech directly — lam getting my phiz done by 
an eminent engraver ; and if it can be ready in 
time, I will appear in my book looking like other 
fools, to my title page.* 
) I have the honour to be, 

Ever your grateful, &c. 



No. XXVIII. 
FROM DR. MOORE. 
Clifford Street, 29th Feb. 1787. 

DEAR SIR, 

Your letter of the 15th gave me a great deal 
of pleasure. It is not surprising that you im- 
prove in correctness and taste, considering where 
you have been for some time past. And I dare 
iwear tliere is no danger of y.ur admitting any 
polish which might weaken the vigour of your 
native powers. 

I am glad to perceive that you disdain the 
nauseous affectation of decrying your own merit 
as a poet — ati affectation which is displayed with 
most ostentation by those who have the greatest 
share of self-conceit, and which only adds unde- 
ceiving falsehood to disgusting vanity. For you 
to deny the merit of yonr poems would be ar- 
raigning the fi.xeil opinion of the public. 

As the new edition of ray View of Societt/ 
is not yet ready, I have sent you the former 
edition, which, I beg you will accept as a small 
mark of my esteem. It is sent by sea, to the 
care of iMr. Creech ; and, along with these four 
volumes for yourself, I have also sent my Medi- 
cal Sketches, in one volume, for my friend Mrs. 
Dunlop of Dimlop : this you will be so obliging 
as to transmit, or if you chance to pass soon by 
Dunlop, to give to her. 

I am happy to hear that your subscription is 
BO ample, and shall rejoice at every piece of good 
fortune that befalls you : for you are a very 
great favourite in my family ; and this is a 
higher compliment than perhaps you are aware 
of. It includes almost all the professions, and 
of course is a proof that your writings are adapt- 
ed to various tastes and situations. Jly young, 
est son who is at WincliestiT school, writes, to 
me that he is translating some stanzas of your 
Hallowe'en into Latin verse, for the, benefit of 
his comrades. This union of taste partly pro- 
ceeds, no doubt, from the cement of Scottish 
partiality, with which they are all somewhat 
tinctured. Even your translator, who left Scot- 



land too early in life for recollection, is not 
without it. 



I remain, with greatest sincerity, 
Your obedient servant, ■ 

J. MOORE. 



No. XXIX. 

TO THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN. 

MY LORD, Edinhurgh, 1787. 

I WANTED to purchase a profile of your lord- 
ship, which I was told was to be got in town ; 
but I am truly sorry to see that a blundering 
painter has spoiled ^ " human face divine.' 
The enclosed stanzas I intended to have written 
below a picture or profile of your lordship, could 
I have been so happy as to procure one with any 
thing of a likeness. 

As I will soon return to my shades, I wanted 
to have something like a material object for rar 
gratitude ; I wanted to have it in my power to 
say to a friend, There is ray noble patron, my 
generous benefactor. Allow me, my lord, to 
publish these verses. I conjure your lordship 
by the honest "throe of gratitude, by the gene- 
rous wish of benevolence, by all the powers and 
feelings which compose the magnanimous mind, 
do not deny me this petition.* I owe to your 
lordship ; and what has not in some other in- 
stances always been the case with me, the weigh 
of the obligation is a pleasing load. I trust, • 
have ^ heart as independent as your lordship*^ 
than which I can say nothing more : and 
would not be beholden to favours that wouii 
crucify my feelings. Your dignified charactef 
in life, and manner of supporting that character, 
are flattering to my pride ; and I would be jea» 
lous of the purity of my grateful attachment, 
where I was under the patronage of one of the 
much favoured sons of fortune. 

Almost every poet has celebrated his patrons, 
particularly when they were names dear to fame, 
and illustrious in their country ; allow me, then, 
my lord, if you think the verses have intrinsic 
merit, to tell the world how much I have the 
honour to be 

Your lordship's highly indebted. 
And ever "rateful humble servant 



• This portrait is engraved by Mr. Beugo, an artist 
who well merits the epithet bestowed on him bv the 
poet, after a picture of Mr. Nasmylh, which he p;iMit- 
ed con amore, and liberally presented to Burns. This 
picture is of the cabinet size. 



• It docs not appear that the Eart granted thit re. 
quest, nor have the verses ailudcd to been fooui] 
among Uie MSS. 



263 



BURNS' WORKS. 



No. XXX. 

TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN. 

MY loan, 

The honour your lordship has done lue, by 
your notice and advice in yours of the 1st in- 
stant, I shall ever gratefully remember : 

" Pruse from thy lips 'tis mine with joy to 

boast, 
They best can give it who deserve it most." 

Your lordship touches the darling chord of 
my heart, when you advise me to fire my muse 
at Scottish story aud Scottish scenes. I wish 
for nothing more than to make a leisurely pil- 
grimage through my native country ; to sit and 
reuse on those once hard-confeaded fields, where 
Caledonia, rejoicing, saw her bloody lioa borne 
trough broken ranks to victory and fame ; and, 
catching the inspiration, to pour the deathless 
names in song. But, my lord, in the midst of 
these enthusiastic reveries, a long-visaged, dry, 
moral-looking phantom strides across my imagi- 
nation, and pronounces these emphatic words, 
" I, Wisdom, dwell with prudence." 



Edinburgh. Gentlemen, I am sorry to be told 
that the remains of Robert Fergusson, the so 
justly celebrated poet, a man whose talents, for 
ages to come, will do honour to our Caledo- 
nian name, lie in your church-yard, among the 
ignoble dead, unnoticed and unknown. 

" Some memorial to direct the steps of the 
lovers of Scottish song, when they wish to shed 
a tear over the " narrow house," of the bard 
who is no more, is surely a tribute due to Fer- 
gusson's memory ; a tribute I wish to have the 
honour of payiug. 

" I petition you, then. Gentlemen, to permit 
nie to lay a simple stone over his revered ashes, 
to remain an unalienable property to his death- 
less fame. I have the honour to be. Gentlemen, 
your very humble servant, {s:ic suhicribitur), 
" ROBERT BURNS." 

Thereafter the said managers, in considera- 
tion of the laudable and disinterested motion 
of Mr. Burns, and the propriety of his request, 
did, and hereby do, imaniraouslv grant power 
and liberty to the said Robert Burns to erect 
a headstone at the grave of the said Robert 
Fergusson, and to keep up and ])reserve the 
same to his memory in all time coming. Ex- 
tracted forth of the records of the managers, by 
William Sprott, Clerk, 



This, my lord, is unanswerable. I must re 
turn to my humble station, and woo my rustic 
muse in my wonted way at the piough-tail 
Still, my lord, while the drops of life warm my 
heart, gratitude to that dear -loved country in 
which I boast my birth, and gratitude to those 
her distinguished sons, who have honoured me 
so much with their patronage and approbation, 
shall, while stealing through my humble shades, 
ever distend my bosom, and at times di-aw 
forth the swelling tear. 



No. XXXI. 

Ext. Property in favour of Mr. Robert 
Burns, to erect and keep up a Headstone in 
memory of Poet Fergusson, 1787. 

Session-house, within the Kirk of Ca- 
nongate, the ticenty-second day of 
February, one thousand seven hun- 
dred and eighty-seven years. 

Sederunt of the managers of the Kirk and Kirk- 
yard Funds of Canongate. 

Which day, the treasurer to the said funds 
produced a letter from Mr. Robert Burns, of 
date the sixth current, which was read, and 
appointed to be engrossed in their sederunt- 
book, and of which letter the tenor follows . 
" To the Honourable Bailies of Canongate, 



No. XXXII. 



TO 



MV DJEAR SIR, 

You may think, and too justly, that I am a 
selfish ungrateful fellow, having received so 
many repeated instances of kindness from you, 
and yet never putting pen to paper to say- 
thank you ; but if you knew what a devil of a 
life my conscience has led mo on that account, 
your good heart would think yourself too much 
avenged. By the bye, there is nothing in the 
whole frame of man which seems to me so 
unaccountable as that thing called conscience. 
Had the troublesome yelping cur powers effi- 
cient to prevent a mischief, he might be of 
use : but at the beginning of the business, his 
feeble efforts are to the workings of passion as 
the infant frosts of an autumnal morning to the 
unclouded fervour of the rising sun : and no 
sooner are the tumultuous doings of the wicked 
deed over, than, amidst the bitter native con- 
sequences of folly, iu the very vortex of our 
horrors, up starts conscience, and harrows us 
with the feelings of the d . 

I have enclosed you, by way of expiation, 
some verse and prose, that, if they merit a place 
in your truly entertaining miscellany, you are 
welcome to. The prose extract is literally as 
.Mr. Sprott sent it me. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



26$ 



The Inscription oh the Stone is as follows : 
HERE tIES ROBERT FERGUSSON, 

POET. 

Born September blh, llSl-Dled, ICth October 1774. 

No sculptured niavble lieie, nor pompous lay, 
" No storied urn nor animated bust ;" 

This simple stone directs i)ale Scotia's way 
To pour ber sorrows o'er her poet's dust. 

On the other side of the Stone is as follows : 

" By special grant of the Managers to Robert 
Burns, wlio erected this stone, this burial-place 
is to remain for ever s^rcd to ihe memory of 
Robert Fergusson." 



would take a snug, well-aired bed-room tor me, 
where I may have the pleasure of seeing you 
over a morning cup of tea. But by all accounts, 
it will be a matter of some difficulty to see you 
at all, unless your company is bespoke a week 
bcfore-hundi There is a great rumou r here con- 
cernin'T vour great intimacy with the Duchess of 
Is, and other ladies of distinction. I am 



No. XXXIII. 

EXTRACT OF A LETTER 
FROM 

8th March, 1787. 

I All truly happy to know you hav(? found a 

friend in ; his patronage of you does 

him great honour. He is truly a good man ; 
by far the best I ever knew, or, perhaps, ever 
shall know, in this world. But I must not 
speak all I think of him, lest I should be thought 
partial. 

So you have obtained liberty from the magis- 
trates to erect a stone over Fergusson's grave ? 
I do not doubt it ; such things have been, as 
Shakespeare says, " in the olden time :" 

'- The poet's fate, is here in emblem sho\vn, 
He ask'd for bread, and he received a stone." 

It is, I believe, upon poor Butler's tomb that 
this is written. But how many brothers of 
Parnassus, as well as poor Butler and poor Fer- 
gusson, have asked for bread, and been served 
with the same sauce ! 

The magistrates gave you liberty, did they • 
O generous magistrates ! . . . . celebrated 
over the three "kingdoms for his public spirit, 
gives a poor poet liberty to raise a tomb to a 
poor poet's memory ! — most generous ! . . . 
once u|jon a time gave that same poet the mighty 
sum of eighteen pence for a copy of his works. 
But then it must be considered that the poet was 
at this time absolutely starving, and besought 
his aid with all the earnestness of hunger; aud, 

over and above, he received a — ; worth, at 

least one-third of the value, in exchange, but 
which, I believe the poet afterwards very un- 
gratefuUv expunged. 

Next week I hope to have the pleasure of 
seeing you in Edinburgh ; and as my stay wil 
be for eight or ten days, I wish you or 



really told that " cards to invite fly by thousands 
each night ;" and, if you had one, I suppose 
there would also bo " bribes to your oVl secre- 
tary." It seems you are resolved to make hay 
while the sun shines, and avoid, if possible, the 

fate of poor Fergusson, 

QiKtrenda pecunia primtnn est, virtus post num- 
mos, is a good maxim to thrive by : you seemed 
to despiso"'it while in this country ; but proba- 
bly some philosopher in Edinburgh has taught 
you better sense. 

Pray, are you yet engraving as well as prmt- 
incr ? — Ai-e you yet seized 

" With itch of picture in the front, 
With bays of wicked rhyme upon't !" 

But I must give up this trifling, and attend 
to matters that more concern myself : so, as the 
Aberdeen wit says, adieu dryly, tvc sal drink 
phaii we meet,* 



No, XXXIV. 
TO MR. JAMES CANDLISH, ' 

Student in Physic, College, Glasgow. 
Edinburgh, March 21, 1787. ' 

MY EVEK DEAR OLD ACQUAINTANCE, 

I WAS equally surprised and pleased at your 
letter ; though I dare say you will think by my 
delaying so long to write to you, that I am so 
drowned in the intoxication of good fortune as 
to be indifferent to old and once dear connec- 
tions. The truth is, I was determined to write 
a good letter, full of argument, amplification, 
erudition, and, as Bayes says, all that. I thought 
of it, and thought of it, but for my soul I can- 
not : and lest you should mistake tiie cause of 
my silence, I just sit down to tell you so. Don't 
give yourself credit though, that the strength of 
your logic scares me : the truth is, I never mean 
to meet you on that grouud at all. You have 



* Tlic above extract is from a letter of one of the 
ablest of our poet's corrc-iiondenU, which containR 
some interesting anecdotes ot Fergusson that we should 
have bwn happy to have inserted, if they could have 
been autheutfcaicd. The writer is mistaken in sujipos- 
iiiw tl\.' magistrates of Kdinbiirgh liad any share in liio 
liTiisactioii rcsiiectinj,' the mouuincnt erected for Fer- 
cussoii by our bard ; this, it is evident, pas,-.e.» between 
Bums arid tlio Kirk Session of the CanoiiRate. Neither 
at Edinburjili, nor anywhere else, do magistrates usu- 
allv trouble themselves to inquire how tlie house of a 
poor poet is furnished, or how his grave ii adorned. 



264 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Bliewn me one tWng, wliich was to be demon- 
strated ; that strong pride of reasoning, witl» a 
little affectation of singularity, may mislead tlie 
best of hearts. I, likewise, since you and I 
were first acquainted, in the pride of despising 
old women's stories, ventured in " the daring 
path Spinosa trod ;" but experience of the 
weakness, not the strength, of human powers, 
made me glad to grasp at revealed religion. 

I must stop, but don't impute my brevity to 
a wrong cause. I am still, in the Apostle Paul's 
phrase, " The old man with his deeds" as when 
we were sporting about the lady thorn. I shall 
be four weeks here yet, at least ; and so I shall 
expect to hear from you — welcome sense, wel- 
come nonsense. 

I am, with the warmest sincerity, 
My dear old friend, 

Vours. 



No. XXXV. 
TO THE SAJIE. 

JIT DKAR FRIEND, 

If once 1 were gone from this scene of hurry 
and dissipation, I promise myself the pleasure 
of that correspondence being renewed which has 
been so long broken. At present 1 liave time 
for nothing. Dissipation and business engross 
every moment. I am cngagcil in assisting an 
honest Scots enthusiast,* a friend of mine, who 
is an engraver, and has taken it into his head to 
publish a collection of all our songs set to music, 
of which the wotds and music are done by Scots- 
men. This, you will easily guess, is an under- 
taking exactly to my taste. I have collected, 
begged, borrowed, and stolen all the songs I 
could meet with. Pompcy's Ghost, words and 
music, I beg from you immediately, to go into 
his second number : the first is already pub- 
lished. I shall shew you the first number when 
I see you in Glasgow, which will be in a fort- 
night or less. Do be so kind as semi me the 
song in a day or two : yoii cannot imagine how 
much it will ol)Iige me. 

Direct to me at Jlr. W. Cruikshank's, St. 
James's Sijuare, Kew Town, Edinbuigli. 



No. XXXVI. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

MADAM, Edlnhurgh, March 22, 17S7. 

I EEAD your letter with watery eyes. A lit- 
tle, very little while ago, / had nance a friend 
but the stuhborn pride of niij oun hoaoin ; now 
I am distinguished, patronized, befrienik-d by 
you. Your friendly adviees, I 'will not give 



them the cold name of criticisms, I receive with 
reverence. I have made some small alterations 
in what I before had printed I have the ad- 
vice of some very judicious friends among the 
literati here, but with them I sometimes find it 
necessary to claim the privilege of thinking for 
myself. The noble Earl of Glencairn, to whom 
I owe more than to any man, does me the hon- 
our of giving me his strictures : his hints with 
respect to impropriety or indelicacy, I follow im- 
plicitly. 

You kindly interest yourself in my future 
views and prospects ; there I can give you uo 
ligl^t; it is all 

" Daik as was chaos, ere the infant sun 
Was roll'd together, or had tried his beami 
Athwart the gloom profound." 

The appellation of a Scottish bard is by far 
my highest jnide ; to continue to deserve it is 
my must exalted ambition. Scottish scenes and 
Scottish story are the themes I could wish to 
sing. I have no dearer aim than to have it in 
my power, unplagued with the routine of busi- 
ness, for which heaven knows I am unfit enough, 
to make leisurely ])ilgrimages through Caledonia ; 
to sit on the fields of her battles ; to wander oa 
the romantic banks of her rivers ; and to muse 
by the stately towers or venerable ruins, once 
the honoured abodes of her heroes. 

But these are all Utopian thoughts : I have 
dallied long enough with life : 'tis time to be in 
earnest. I have a fond, an aged mother to care 
for ; and some other bosom ties perhaps equally 
tender. Where the individual only suflfers by 
the consequences of his own thoughtlessness, in- 
dolence, or folly, he may be excusable : nay, 
shining abilities, and some of the nobler virtues, 
may half-sanctify a heedless character : but 
where God and nature have intrusted the wel- 
fare of others to his care ; where the trust is sa- 
cred, and the ties are dear, that man must be 
far gone in selfishness, or strangely lost to reflec- 
tion, whom these connections will not rouse to 
exertion. 

1 guess that T shall clear between two and 
three hunilred ])ounds by my authorship j with 
that sum I iiitind, so far as I may be said to 
liavt; any indention, to return to my old acquain- 
tance, the plough, and, if I can meet with a 
lease by which I can live, to commence farmer. 
I dii not intend to give up poetry : being bred 
to labour secures nie independence ; and the 
nm~es are my chief, sometimes have been my 
only enjoyment. If my practice second my re- 
soludon, I shall have principally at heart the se- 
riuiH business of life : but while following my 
plough, or building up my shocks, I shall cast a 
leisure glance to that dear, that only feature of 
my character, which gave me the notice of my 
country and the |iatroiiage of a Vt'allace. 

Thus, honourtd madam, I have given you the 
bard, his situation, and his views, native as they 
are in his own bosom. 



•Johnson, the publisher of tlieScote Musical Museum. 1 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



265 



No. XXXVIL 

TO THE SAME. 

MADAM, Edinburgh, loth April, 1787. 

There is an affectation of gratitude which I 
dislike. The periods of Johnson and the pauses 
v( Sterne may liide a selfish heart. For my 
part, I\Iadara, I trust I have too much pride for 
sei-vility, and too little prudence for selfishness, 
I have this moment broke open your letter, 
but 

" Rude am I in speech, 
And therefore little can I grace my cause 
In speaking for myself — " 

80 I shall not trouble you with any fine speeches 
and hunted figures. I shall just lay my hand 
on my heart, and say, I hope I shall ever have 
the truest, the warmest, sense of your goodness. 

I come abroad in print for certain on Wed- 
nesday. Your orders I shall punctually attend 
to ; only, by the way, I must tell you that I 
was paid before for Dr. Moore's and Miss W.'s 
copies, through the medium of Commissioner 
Cochrane in this place ; but that wo can settle 
when I have the honour of waiting on you. 

Dr. Smith* was just gone to Loudon the 
morning before I received your letter to him. 



No. XXXVIII. 
TO DR. MOORE. 

Edinburgh, 2Sd April, 1797. 

I RECEIVED the books, and sent the one you 
mentioned to Mrs. Dunlop. I am ill-skilled in 
beating the coverts of imagination for metaphors 
of gratitude. I thank you. Sir, for the honour 
you have done me ; and to my latest hour will 
warmly remember it. To be highly pleased 
with your book, is what I have in common 
with the world ; but to regard these volumes as 
a mark of the author's friendly esteem, is a still 
more supreme gratification. 

I leave Edinburgh in the course of ten days 
or a fortnight ; and after a few pilgrimages ov'fcr 
some of the classic ground of Caledonia, Cow- 
den- Knowes, Eanks of Yarrow, Tweed, §-c. 
I shall return to my rural shades, in all likeli- 
hood never more to quit them. I have formed 
many intimacies and friendships here, but I am 
afraid they are all of too tender a construction 
to bear carmge a hundred and fifty miles. To 
the rich, the great, the fashionable, the polite, 
7 have do equivalent to offer ; and I am afraid 
my meteor appearance will by no means entitle 
me to # settled correspondence with any of you, 
who are the permanent lights of genius and li- 
terature. 



j\Iy most respectful compliments to Miss W. 
If once this tangent flight of mine were over, 
and I were returned to my wonted leisurely 
motion in my old circle, I may probably endea- 
vour to return her poetic compliment in kind. 



No. XXXIX 

EXTRACT OF A LETTER 

TO MRS DUNLOP. 

Edinburgh, 50th April, 1787. 

Your, criticisms, JMadam, I under- 
stand very well, and could have wished to have 
pleased you better. You are right in your guess 
that I am not very amenable to counsel. Poets, 
much my superiors, have so flattered tliose who 
possessed the adventitious qualities of wealth and 
power, that I am determined to flatter no cre- 
ated being either in prose or ver.se. 

I set as little by , lords, clergy, cri- 

tics, &c. as all these respective gentry do by 
my hardship. I know what I may expect from 
the world by and by — illiberal abuse, and per- 
haps contemptuous neglect, 

I am happy, Madam, that some of my own 
favourite pieces are distinguished by your par- 
ticular approbation. For my Dream, which 
has unfortunately incurred your loyal displea- 
sure, I hope in four weeks, or less, to have the 
honour of appearing at Dunlop in its defence, in 
person. 



No. XL. 



* Adam Smith. 



TO THE REVEREND DR. HUGH BLAIR. 

Lawn-Market, Edinburgh, 3d May, 1787. 

REVEREND AND MUCH RESPECTED SIR, 

I r.EAVE Edinburgh to-morrow morning, but 
could not go without troubling you with half a 
line, sincerely to thank you for the kindness, 
patronage, and friendship you have shown me. 
I often lelt the enibarras>nient of my singular si- 
tuatioiT ; drawn forth from the veriest shades 
of life to the glare <if remark ; and honoured by 
the notice of those illustrious names of my coun- 
try, whose works, while they are applauded to 
the end of time, will ever instruct and mend the 
heart. However the meteor-like novelty of my 
appear.ince in the world might attract notice, 
and honour mo with the acquaintance of the 
permanent lights i;f genius an 1 literature, those 
who are truly benefactors of the immortal na- 
ture of man ; I knew very well, that my utmost 
merit wt3 far unequal to the task of preserving 
that character when once the novelty was over. 
I have made up my mind, tliat abuse, or almost 



266 



BURNS' WORKS. 



even neglect, will not surprise me in ray 
quarters. 

I have sent you a proof impression of Beu- 
go's work for ine, done oa Indian paper, as a 
trifling but sincere testimony with what heart- 
warm gratitude I am, &c. 



No. XLI. 
FROM DR. BLAIR. 

Argylc- Square, Udhiburgh, itk May, 1787. 

DKAB SIR, 

I WAS favoured this forenoon with your very 
obliging letter, together with an impression of 
your portrait, for which I return you my best 
thanks. The success you have met with I do 
not think was beyond your merits ; and if I 
have had any small hand iu contributing to it, 
it gives me great pleasure. I know no way in 
which literary persons, who are advanced iu 
years, can do more service to the world, than 
in forwarding the efforts of rising genius, or 
bringing forth unknown merit from obscurity. 
I was the first person who brought out to the 
notice of the world, the poems of Ossian : first 
by the Fragmtnts of Ancient Pottry, which I 
published, and afterwards, by my setting on 
foot the undertaking for collecting and publish' 
jng the Works of Oshian ; and I have always 
considered this as a meritorious action of my 
life. 

Your situation, as you say, was indeed very 
Bingular ; and, in being brought out all at once 
from the shades of deepest privacy, to so great 
a share of public notice and observation, you 
had to stand a severe trial. I am happy that 
you have stood it so well ; and as far as I have 
known or heard, though in the midst of many 
temptations, without reproach to your charac- 
ter and behaviour. 

You are now, I presume, to retire to a more 
private walk of life ; and I trust, will conduct 
yourself there with industry, prudence, and ho- 
nour. You have laid the foundation for just 
public esteem. In the midst of those employ- 
ments, which your situation will render propei-, 
you will not, I hope, neglect to promote that 
esteem, by cultivating your genius, and attend- 
ing to such productions of it as may raise your 
character still higher. At the same time, be 
not in too great a haste to come forward, 'i'ake 
time and leisure to improve and mature your 
talents ; for on any second production you give 
the world, your fate, as a poet, will veiy much 
depend. There is, no doubt, a glcss of novelty 
which time wears off. As you very properly 
hint yourself, you are not to be surprised if, in 
your rural retreat, you do not find yourself sur- 
rounded with that glare of notice and applause 
which here shone upon you. No man can be 
a good poet without being somewhat of a phi- . 



losopher. He must lay his account, that any 
one, who exposes himself to public observation, 
will occasionally meet with the attacks of illi- 
beral censure, which it is always best to over- 
look and despise. He will be inclined some- 
times to court retreat, and to disappear from 
public view. He will not affect to shine al- 
ways, that he may at proper seasons come forth 
with more advantage and energy. He will not 
think himself neglected if he be not always 
praised. I have taken the liberty, you see, of 
an old man, to give advice and make reflections 
which your own good sense will, I dare say, 
render unnecessary. 

As you mention your being just about to 
leave town, you are going, I should suppose, to 
Dumfriesshire, to look at some of Mr. Miller's 
farms. I heartily wish the offers to be made 
you there may answer ; as I am persuaded you 
will not easily find a more generous and better 
hearted proprietor to live under than I\Ir. Mil- 
ler. AVhen you return, if you come this way, 
I will be happy to see you, aud to know con- 
cerning your future plaus of life. You will 
find me, by the 22d of this month, not in mw 
house in Argyle Square, but at a country-house 
at Restalrig, about u mile east from Edinburgh, 
near the Musselburgh road. Wishing you all 
success and prosperity, I am, with real regard 
and esteem. 

Dear Sir, 

Yours sincerely, 

HUGH BLAIR, 



No. XLII. 

TO WILLIAM CREECH, Esq. 
(^of Edinburgh,) London. 

Selkirh, ISth May, 1787. 

5iy HONOURED FRIEND, 

The enclosed* I have just wrote, nearly ex- 
tempore, in a solitary inn in Selkirk, after a 
miserable wet day's riding. — I have been over 
most of East Lothian, Berwick, Roxburgh, and 
Selkirkshires ; and next week I begin a tour 
through the north of England. Yesterday I 
dined with Lady Hariot, sister to my noble pa- 
tron. Quern Deus conservet ! I would write till 
I would tire you as much with dull prose as I 
dare say by this time you are with wretched 
verse, but 1 am jaded to death ; so, with a grate- 
ful farewell, 

J have the honour to be. 

Good Sir, yours sincerely. 



* Elegy on W. Creech ; see the Poetrj? 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



267 



No. XLIII. 
FROM DR. MOORE. 
■ Glifford Street, May 23, 17S7. 

DKAR SIR, 

I HAD the pleasure of your letter by Mr. 
Creech, and soon after he sent me the new edi- 
tion of your poems. You seem to think it in- 
cumbent on you to send to each subscriber a 
number of copies proportionate to his subscrip- 
tion money ; but you may depend upon it, few 
subscribers expect more than one copy, what- 
ever they subscribed. I must inform you, how- 
ever, that I took twelve copies for those subsci-i- 
bers for whose money you were so accurate as 
to send me a receipt ; and Lord Eglintoa told 
me he had sent for six copies for himselft as he 
wished to give fiva of them in presents. 

Some of the poems you have added in this 
last edition are beautiful, particularly the-TFi/^- 
ter Night, the Address to Edinbtirgh, Green 
grow the Hashes, and the two songs immediate- 
ly following ; the latter of which was exquisite. 
By the way, I imagine you have a peculiar ta- 
lent for such compositions, which you ought to 
indulge.* No kind of poetry demands more 
delicacy or higher polishiug. Horace is more 
admired on account of his Odes than ail his 
other writings. But nothing now added is 
equal to your Vision and Cutter's Saturday 
Night. In these are united fine imagery, na 
tural and pathetic description, with sublimity of 
language and thought. It is evident that you 
already possess a great variety of expression and 
command of the English language ; you ought, 
therefore, to deal more sparingly for the future 
in the provincial dialect : — why should you, by 
using that, limit the number of your admirers to 
those who understand the Scottish, when you 
can extend it to all persons of taste who under- 
stand the English language ? In my opinion, 
you should plan some larger work than any you 
have as yet attempted. I mean, reflect upon 
some proper subject, and arrange the plan in 
your mind, without beginning to execute any 
part of it till you have studied most of the best 
English poets, and read a little more of history. 
The Greek and Roman stories you can read ip 
some abridgment, and soon become master of 
the most brilliant facts, which must highly de- 
light a poetical mind. You should also, .lud 
very soon may, become master of the heathen 
mythology, to which there are everlasting allu- 
sions in all the poets, and which in itself is 
charmingly fanciful. What will require to be 
studied with more attention, is modern history ; 
that is, the history of France and Great Britain, 
from the beginning of Henry the Seventh's reign. 
I know very well you have a mind capable of 
attaining knowledge by a shorter process than 
IS commonly used, and I am certain you arc ca- 



pable of making a bettor use of it, when attain < 
od, than is generally done. 

I beg you will not give yourself the trouble 
of writing to me when it is inconvenient, and 
make no apology, when you do write, for ha- 
ving postponed it ; be assured of this, however, 
that I shall always be hap])y to hear from you. 

I think my friend I\Ir. told me that you 

had some poems in manuscript by you of a sati- 
rical and humorous nature (in which, by the 
way, I think yo\i very strong), which your pru- 
dent friends prevailed on you to omit, particu- 
larly one called Somebody's Confession ; if you 
will entrust me with a sight of any of these, I 
will pawn my word to give no copies, and will 
be obliged to you for a perusal of them. 

I understand you intend to take a farm, and 
make the useful and respectable business of hus- 
bandry your chief occupation ; this, I hope, will 
not prevent your making occasional addresses to 
the nine ladies who have shown you such fa- 
vour, one of whom visited you in the auld clay 
higrjin. Virgil, before you, proved to the world 
that there is nothing in the business of husband- 
ry inimical to poetry ; and I sincerely hope that 
you may afford an example of a good poet being 
a successful farmer. I fear it will not be in mjr 
power to visit Scotland this season ; when I do, 
I'll endeavour to find you out, for I heartily 
wish to see and converse with you. If ever 
your occasions call you to this place, I make uo 
doubt of your paying me a visit, and you may 
depend on a very cordial welcome from this fa- 
mily. I am, dear Sir, 

Your friend and obedient servant, 

J. MOORE. 



No. XLIV. 
TO iMR. W. NICOLL, 
Mastkr of the High-School, EoiNisuiioH. 
Carlisle, June 1, 1787. 

KIND, HONEST-HEARTED WILLIE. 

I'm sitten down here, after seven and forty 
miles ridin, e'en as furjesket and forniaw'd as a 
forl'oughtcn cock, to gie you some notion o' my 
land lowper-like stravaguin sin the sorrowfu' 
hour that I sheuk hands and parted wi' auld 
Reekie. 

My auld, ga'd gleyde o* a meere has huchy- 

; all'd up hill and down brae, in Scotland and 

England, as teugh and birnie as a vera devil wi' 

me.* It's true, she's as poor's a sang-maker 



• His subsequent compositions will bear testimony 
to the accuxscy of JDr. Moore's judgment. 



• This mare was the Poet's favourite Jennv Gkiv 
DEB, of whom honourable and most humorous men- 
tion is made in a letter, inserted in Dr. Cijrrie's edition, 
vol. 1. p. 165. 

This old and faithful sonant of the Poet's was named 
by him, after the olil woman, who in her zeal against 
roligiciis innovation, threw a stool at the Dean of 
Edinburph's head, when he attempted in If 37, to in 
iroduce the Scottish Liturgy, •« On Sunday, Utc K<X 



BURNS' WORKS. 



and as hard's a kirk, and tipper-taipers when 
she taks the gate, first like a kdy's gentlewoman 
in a minuwae, or a hen on a het girdle, but 
she's a yauld, poutherie Girran for a' that, and 
has a stomack like Willie Stalker's ineere that 
♦ wad hae disgeested tumblpr-wbcels, for she'll 
whip me aff her five stimparts o' the best aits 
at a down-sittin and ne'er fash her thumb. 
When ancc her ringbanes and spavies, her crucks 
and cramps, are fairly soupl'd, she beets to, 
beets to, and ay the hindmost hour the tightest. 
I could wager her price to a thretty pennies 
that, for twa or three wooks ridin at fifty mile 
a day, the deil-sticket a five gallopers acqueesh 
Clyde and Whithorn could cast saut on her tail. 

I hae dander'd owre a' the kintra frae Dum- 
bar to Seicraig, and hae forgather'd wi' mony a 
guid fallow, and monie a weelfar'd hizzie. I 
Diet wi' twa dink qiiincs in particlar, ane o' 
them a sonsie, fine, fodgel lass, buith braw and 
bonie ; the titlier was a dean-shaiikit, straught, 
tight, weelfar'd winch, as blithe's a lintwhite 
on a flowerie thorn, and as sweet and inodest's 
a new blawn plunirose in a hiizle sliaw. They 
were baitli bred to mainers by the beuk, and 
onie ane o' them bad as muckle smeddum and 
rumblgumtion as the half o' some presbytries 
that you and I baith ken. They play'd me sik 
a deevil o' a shavie that I daur say if my hari- 
Ifals were turn'd out, ye wad see twa nicks i' the 
heart o' me like the mark o' a kail-whittle in a 
castock. 

I was gaun to write j-on a lang pystle, but, 
Gude forgie me, I gat niysel sae notouriously 
bitchify'd the day after kail-time that I can 
hardly stoiter but and ben. 

My best respecks to the guidwife and a' our 
common friens, especiall Mr. and Mrs. Cruik- 
shank and the honest gnidman o' Jock's Lodge. 

I'll be in Dumfries the morn gif the beast be 
to the fore, and the branks bide hale. 

Gude be wi' you, Willie ! 

Amen !— . 



No. XLV. 



FROM MR. JOHN HUTCHINSON. 
Jamaica, St. Ann's, Hth June, 17S7. 

Sill, 

I RECEIVED yours, dated Edinburgh, Sd Ja- 
nuary, 17S7, wherein you acquaint me you were 
engaged with Mr. Douglas of Port Antonio, for 



of July, the Dean of Edinburgh prepared to officiate 
in St. Giles's. The conjjregation tviitinued quiet till 
the service began, when an old woman, impelled by 
Eudden indiRnation, started up, and exclaiming aloud, 
• Villain! dost thou say the Mass at my lug !' threw 
the stool on which »he had been sitting, at the Dean's 
head. A wild uproar commenced that instant. The 
••rvice was interrupted. The women invaded the 
desk with execrations and outcries, and the Dean dis- 
engaged himself from liis s\irplice to escape from theit 
hutAM,"—L«in^t aiM. qfSix4laiui, vol. lii. p. 122. 



three years, at thirty pounds sterling a-year ; 
and am happy some unexpected accidents inter- 
vened that prevented your sailing with the ve»- 
sel, as I have great reason to think Mr. Dou- 
glas's employ would by no means have answer- 
ed your expectations. I received a copy of your 
publications, for which I return yon my thanks, 
and it is my own opinion, as well as that of such 
of my friends as have seen them, they are most 
excellent in their kind ; although some could 
have wished they had been in the English style, 
as they allege the Scottish dialect is now be- 
coming obsolete, and thereby the elegance and 
beauties of your poems ate in a great measure 
lost to far th& greater part of the community. 
Nevertheless there is no doubt you had sufficient 
reasons for your conduct — perhaps the wishes 
of some of the Scottish nobility and gentry, your 
patrons, who will always relish their own old 
country style; and your own inclinations for 
the same. It is evident from several passages 
in your works, you are as capable of writing in 
the English as in the Scottish dialect, and lam 
in great hopes your genius for poetry, from the 
specimen you have already given, will turn out 
both for profit and honour to yourself and 
country. I can by no means advise you now 
to think of coming to the West Indies, as, I 
assure you, there is no en<;ouragement for a 
man of learning and genius here ; and am very 
confident you can do far better in Great Bri- 
tain, than in Jamaica. I am glad to hear mj 
friends are well, and shall always be happy to 
hear from you at all convenient opportunities, 
wishing you success in all your undertakings, 
I will esteem it a particular favour if you will 
send me a copy of the other edition you are now 
printing. 

I am, with respect. 

Dear Sir, yours, fcc. 

JOHN HUTCHINSON. 



No. XLVI. 
TO MR. W. NICOLL. 

Mauchline, June 18, 1787. 

MY DEAR FRIEND, 

I AM now arrived safe in my native country, 
after a very agreeable jaunt, and have the plea- 
sure to find all my friends well. I breakfasted 
with your grey-headed, reverend friend, Mr. 
Smith ; and was highly pleased both with the 
cordiiJ welcome he gave me, and his most ex- 
cellent appearance and sterling good sense. 

I have been with Mr. Miller at Dalswinton, 
and am to meet him again in August. From 
my view of the lands and his reception of my 
hardship, my hopes in that business are rather 
mended ; but still they are but slender. 

I am quite charmed with Dumfries folks- 
Mr. Burnside, the clergyman, \a particular, ia 



Correspondence. 



m 



A than whom I shall ever gratefully remember ; 
and his wife, Guds forgie me, I had almost 
broke the tenth comraantlmeDt oa her account. 
Simplicity, elegance, good sense, sweetness of 
disposition, good humour, kind hospitulitv, are 
the constituents of her manner and heart ; in 
short — but if I say one word more about her, I 
shall be directly in love with her. 

I never, my friend, thought mankind very 
capable of any thing generous ; but the stateli- 
ness of the Patricians in Edinburgh, and the 
servility of my plebeian brethren, (who, per- 
haps, formerly eyed me askance), since I re- 
turned home, have nearly put mo out of conceit 
altogether with my species. I have bouglit a 
pocket Milton which I carry perpetually about 
with me, in order to study the sentiments — the 
dauntless magnanimity ; the intrepid, unyield- 
ing independence, the desperate daring, and 
noble defiance of hardship, in that great per- 
sonage, Satan. 'Tis true, I have just now a 
little cash ; but I am afraid the star tint hith- 
erto has shed its malignant, purpose-blasting 
rays full in my zenith ; that noxious planet so 
baneful in its influences to the rhyming tribe, I 
much dread it is not yet beneath my horizon. — 
Misfortune dodges the path of humin life ; the 
poetic mind finds itself miserably deranged in, 
and unfit for the walks of business ; add to all, 
that, thoughtless follies and hare-brained whims, 
like 80 many ipnes fiitui, eternally diverging 
from the right line of sober discretion, sparkle 
with step-bewitching blaze in the idly-gazing } 
eyes of the poor heedless Bard, till, pop, " he I 
falls like Lucifer, never to hope again." God 
grant this may be an unreal picture with re- i 
spect to me ! but should it not, I have very 
little dependence on mankind. I will close my i 
letter with this tribute my heart bids me pay 
you — the many ties of acquaintance and friend- i 
ehip which I have, or think I have in life, I j 
hare felt along the lines, and, d — n them ! they . 
are almost all of them of such frail contexture, 
that I am sure they would not st;iud the breath ! 
of the least adverse breeze of fortune ; but fiom 
you, my ever dear Sir, I look with confidence j 
for the Apostolic love that shall wait on me | 
" through good report and bad report" — the | 
love which Solomon emphatically says " Is 
strong as death." My compliments to Mrs. 
Nicoll, and all the circle of our common friends. 

P. S. I shall be in Edinburgh about the latter 
tpA of July. 



No. XL VII. 
to GAVIN HAMILTON, Esq. 



and Stirling, and am delighted with their ap- 
pearance : richly waving crops of wheat, barley, 
&c. but no harvest at all yet, except in one or 
two places, au old Wife's Ridge. — Yesterday 
morning I rode from this town up the mean- 
dring Devon's banks to pay my respects to some 
Ayrshire folks at Harvieston. After breakfast, 
we mide a party to go and see the famous Cau- 
dron-linn, a remarkable cascade in the Devon, 
about five miles above Harvieston ; and after 
spending one of the most pleasant days I ever 
had in my life, I returned to. Stirling in the 
evening. Thry are a family. Sir, thou';h I had 
not h id a.iy prior tie ; though they had not been 
the brother ;md si^ters of a certain generous 
friend of mine, I wtmid never forget them. I 
am told you have not seen them these several 
years, so you can have very little idea of what 
these young folks ate now. Your brother is as 
tall as yuu are, but slender rather than other- 
wise ; and I have the satisfaction to inform you 
that he is gettirig the better of those consump- 
tive symptoms which 1 suppose you know were 
threatening him. His make, and particularly 
his manner, resemble you, but he will still have 
a finer fico. (I put in the word stilt, to please 
^Iis. rianiilcon.^: G.)od sense, modesty, and at 
the same time a just iile i of that respect that 
man owes to man, and has a right in his turn 
to exa^ct, are striking features in his character ; 
and, what with me is the Alplia and the Ome- 
g I, he ii^iS a he:iit mi;.;ht wdoru the breast of a 
poet i Grace has a i-ujd figure and the look of 
iiealth and cheerfulness, but nothing else re- 
markable in her jierson. 1 scarcely ever saw so 
striking a likeness as is between her and your 
little Beenie ; the mouth and chin particularly. 
She is reserved at first ; but as we grew better 
acquainted, I wai delighted with the native 
frankness of her maimer, and the sterling sense 
of her observation. Of Charlotte, I cannot 
speak in common terms of admiration : she is 
not only beautiful, but lovely. Her form is ele- 
gant ; her features not regular, but they have 
the imile of sweetness and the settled compla- 
cency of g.iod nature in the highest degree ; and 
liL'r complexion, now that she has happily re- 
covered her wonted health, is equal to Miss 
Burutt's. After the exercise of our riding to 
the Falls, Charlotte was exactly Dr. Donne 'a 
mistress : 



" Her pure and eloquent blood 
her cheeks, and so distinctly 



Spoke 

wrought. 
That one would almost say her body thought." 



Her eyes ari fascinating ; at once expressive of 
good sense, tenderness, and a noble mind. 

I do not give you all this account, my good 

Sir, to flatter you. I meau it to reproach you. 

Such relations tho fir>t peer in the realm might 

MY MAR SIR, Stirlinff, 29th Aug. 1787. own with pride ; then why do you not keep up 

Herk am I on my way to Inverness. I have more correspnndence witn these so amiable 

rambled ovtr the rich, fertile carses of Falkirk young folkj ? I had a thousand (jnestioos to 



170 



BURNS' WORKS, 



wuwer about you all : 1 had to describe tlie 
littU ones with th« minuteness of anatomy. 
They were highly delighted when I told them 
that John* was so ^ood a hoy, and so fine a 
scholar, and that Willie f was going on still 
Tery pretty ; but I have it in commission to 
tell her from them that beauty is a poor silly 
bauble without she be good. Miss Chalmers I 
had left in Edinburgh, but I had the pleasure 
of meeting with Mrs. Chalmers, only Lady 
M'Kenzie being rather a little alarmingly ill of 
a sore-throat, somewhat marr'd our enjoyment. 
I shall not be in Ayrshire for four weeks. 
My most respectful compliments to Jlrs. Ha- 
milton, Miss Kennedy, and Dr. M'Kenzie. I 
thall probably write him from some stage or 
other. 

1 am ever, Sir, 

Yours most gratefully. 



No. XL VIII. 

TO MR. WALKER, BLAIR OF 
ATHOLE. 

'' Inverness, 5th Sept. 1787. 

MT CEAK SIR, 

I RA.TE just time to write the foregoing, \ 
and to tell you that it was (at least most part 
of it), the effusion of an half hour I spent at 
Braar. I do not mean it was extempore, for I 
have endeavoured to brush it up as well as jMr. 

N- *s chat, and the jogging of the chaise, 

would allow. It eases my heart a good deal, 
OS rhyme is the coin with which a poet pays his 
debts of honour or gratitude. Whit I owe to 
the noble family of Athole, of the first kind, I 
shall ever proudly boast ; what I owe of the 
last, so help me God in my hour of need, I 
shall never forget. 

The little " angel band ! — I declare I pray- 
ed for them very sincerely to-diy at the Fall of 
Fyars. I shall never forget the fine flimily- 
piece I saw at Blair ; the amiable, the truly 
noble Duchess, with her smiling little seraph 
in her lap, at the head of the table ; the lovely 
" olive plants," as the Hebrew banl finely say.-i, 
round the happy mother; the beautiful Mrs 

Q ; the lovely, sweet Miss C. &c. I wish 

I had the powers of Guifio to do them justice ! 
My Lord Dulc,e's kind hospitality, markedly 

kind, indeed 'Mr G. of F 's charms of 

conversation — Sir W. M 's friendship — in 

short, the recollection of all that polite, agree- 



• This is the " wee curlie Johnnie," mentioned in 
Bums's dedication to Gavin Hamilton, E^q. 'ri) this 
gentleman, and every branch of the family, the Editor 
M Indebted for much information respecting the poet, 
and very gratefully acitnowledges the kiudjiess sliewn 
to himself. 

t Now married to the Rev. John Tod, Minister of 
Mauchline. 

X " The humble Petition of Bruar-Water to the 
Pukeof AOtole." 



able company, rolnes .an honest glow ia my* bfl* 
6om> 



No. XLIX. 
TO MR. GILBERT BURNS. 

Edinburgh, 11th Sept. 1737* 

MT DEAR BROTHER, 

I ARRIVED here safe yesterday evening, after 
a tour of twenty-two days, and travelling near 
six hundred miles, windings included. My 
farthest stretch was about ten miles beyond In- 
verness. I went through the heart of the 
Highlands, by Crieff, Taymouth, the famous 
seat of Lord Breadalbane, down the Tay, 
among cascades and druidical circles of stones 
to Dunkeld, a seat of the Duke of Athole ; 
thence cross Tay, and up one of his tributary 
streams to Blair of Athole, another of the 
Duke's seats, where I had the honour of spend- 
ing nearly two days with his Grace and family ; 
thence many miles through a wild country, a- 
mong cliffs grey with eternal snows, and gloomy 
savage glens, till I crossed Spey and went down 
the stream through Strathspey, so famous in 
Scottish music, Badenoch, &c. till I reached 
Grant Castle, M'here I spent half a day with 
Sr James Grant and family ; and then crossed 
the country for Fort George, but called by the 
way at Cawdor, the ancient seat of Macbeath ; 
there I saw the identical bed in which, tradi- 
tion says. King Duncan was murdered : lastly, 
from Fort George to Inverness. 

I returned by the coast, through Nairn, For- 
res, and so on, to Aberdeen ; thence to Stone- 
hive, where James Burnes, from Montrose, met 
raei by appointment. I spent two days among 
our lelations, and found cur aunts, Jean and 
Isabel, still alive, and hale old women. John 
Caird, though born the same year with our fa- 
ther, walks as v^rously as I can ; they have 
had several letters fi'om his son in New York. 
William Brau<l is likewise a stout old fellow : 
but further particulars I delay till I see you, 
which will l)e in two or three weeks. The 
rest of my stages are not worth rehearsing : 
warm as I was from Ossian's country, where I 
had seen his very grave, what cared I for fish- 
ing towns or fertile carses .' I slept at the fa- 
mous Brodie of Brodie's one night, and dined 
at Gordon Castle next day with the Duke, 
Duchess, and family. I am thinking to cause 
my old mare to meet me, by means of John 
Ronald, at Glasgow ; but you shall hear farther 
from me before I leave Edinburgh. My duty, 
and many compliments from the north, to my 
mother, and my brotherly compliments to the 
rest. I have been trying for a birth for Wil- 
liam, but am not likely to be suecessful,— 
Farewell. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



871 



No. L. 
FROM MR. R— -^ 

6in, Ochterti/fe, 22d October, 1787. 

*TwAS only yesterday I got Colonel Edtnon- 
Btoun's answer, that neither the words of 
Down the burn Davie, nor Duinty Davie (I 
forgot which you mentioned), were written by 
Colonel G. Crawford. Next time I meet him, 
I will inquire about his cousin's poetical talents. 

Enclosed are the inscriptions you requested, 
and a letter to Mr. Young, whose company and 
musical talents will, I am persuaded, be a feast 
to you.* Nobody can give you better hints, 
as to your present plan, than he. Receive 
also Omeron Cameron, which seemed to make 
such a deep impression on your imagination, 
that I am not without hopes it will beget some- 



• These Inscriptions, so much admired by Burns, 
are below : — 

WEirrrN in 176S. 

FOR THE SALICTUM AT OCHTKRTYRE. 

SAiiJBRiTATis voluptatisque causa. 

Hoc Salictum, 

Paludem olim infidam, 

Mihi meisque desicco et exorno. 

Hie, proeul negotiis strepituque 

Innoeuis delieiis 

Silvulas inter nascentes reptandi, 

Apiumque labores suspiciendi, 

Fnior, 

Hie, si faxit Deus opt max. 

Prope hunc fontem pellucidum. 

Cum quadam juveututis araieo superstite, 

Saepe connuiescam, senex, 

Contentus modicis, meoque lastus ! 

Sin alitor — 

jEvique paululum supersit, 

Vos silviilx, et amici, 

Catcraque amosna, 

Valete, diuque laetamini ! 



EN'CLISUED. 

To improve both air and soil, 

1 drain and decorate this plantation of willows, 

Which was lately an unprofitable morass. 

Here, far from noise and strife, 

I love to wander. 

Now fondly marking the progress of my trees. 

Now studying the bee, its arts and niatiners. 

Here, it' it |)leases Alniiglity God, 

May I often rest in the evening of life. 

Near that transp;irent fountain. 

With some survivinf; friend of my youtbt 

Contented with a competency, 

And happy with my lot. 
If vain these humble wishes. 
And life draws near a close. 

Ye trees and friends. 

And whatever else is dear. 

Farewell, audlong may ye flourish. 



ABOVE THE DOOR OF THE HOUSE. 

WRITTEN ij» 1775. 

Miui meisqiie utinam contingat, 

Prope Taichi raarginem, 

Avito in Agello, 

Ren« vivere fausteque raori I 



thinff to delight the publiti'iti due timet KtA, 
no doubt) the circumstances of this little tale 
might bo varied or extended, so as to moke 
part of a pastoral comedy. Age or wounds 
might have kept Omeron at home, whilst his 
countrymen were in the field. His station 
may be somewhat varied, without losing his 
simplicity and kindness .... A group 
of characters, male and female, connected with 
the plot, might be formed from his family, or 
some neighbouring one of rank. It is not in- 
dispensable that the guest should be a man of 
high station ; nor is the political quarrel in 
which he is engaged, of much importance, un- 
less to call forth the exercise of generosity and 
faithfulness, grafted on patriarchal hospitality. 
To introduce state affairs, would raise the 
style above comedy ; though a small spice of 
them would season the converse of swains. 
Upon this head I cannot say more than to re- 
commend the study of the character of Euraseus 
in the Odyssey, which, in JMr. Pope's transla- 
tion, is an exquisite and invaluable drawing 
from nature, that would suit some of our coun- 
try eirlers of the present day. 

There must be love in the plot, and a happy 
discovery ; and peace and pardon may be the 
reward of hospitality, and honest attachment 
to misguided principles. When you have once 
thought of a plot, and brought the story into 
form. Dr. Blacklock, or JMr. 11. Blackenzie, 
may be useful in dividing it into acts and 
scenes ; for in these matters one must pay 
some attention to certain rules of the drama. 
These you could afterwards fill up at your lei- 
sure. But, whilst I presume to give a few 
well-meant hints, let me advise you to study 
the spirit of my namesake's dialogue, • which 
is natural without being low, and, under the 
trammels of verse, is such as country people la 
their situations speak every day. You have 
only to bring down your own strain a very lit- 
tle. A great plan, such as this, would con- 
center all your ideas, which facilitates the exe- 
cution, and makes it a part of one's pleasure. 

I approve of your plan of retiring from din 
and dissipation to a farm of very moderate size, 
sufficient to find exercise for mind and body, 
but not so great as to absorb better things. 
And if some intellectual pursuit be well chosen 
and steadily pursued, it will be more lucrative 
than most farms, in this age of rapid improve- 
ment. 

Upon this subject, as your well-wisher aud 
admirer, permit me to go a step farther. Let 



BNCLISUEU. 



On the banks of the Teith, 

In th>c small but sweet iiiheritancs 

Of my fathers, 

.May I and mine live in peace. 

And die in joyful hope ! 



These inscriptions, and thi translatiotu, are In the 

hand-writing of Mr. R . 

♦ AUan Ilamsay. in the Gentle Shepherd. 



272 



BURNS' WORKS. 



those bright talents which the Almighty has 
bestowed on you, be henceforth employed to 
the noble purpose of supporting the cause of 
, truth and virtue. An imagination so varied 
and forcible as yours, may do this in many dif- 
ferent modes ; nor is it necassary to be always 
serious, which you have been to good purpose ; 
good morals may be reco'nmended in a comedy, 
or even in a song. Great allowances are due 
to the heat and inexperience of youth ; — and 
few poets can boast, like Thomson, of never 
having written a line, which, dying, they would 
wish to blot. In particular, I wish you to 
keep clear of the thorny walks of salire, which 
makes a man a hundred enemies fur one friend, I 
and is doubly dangerous when one is supposed 
to extend the slips and weaknesses of indivi- 
duals to their sect or party. About modes of 
faith, serious and excollerit men have always 
differed ; and there are certain curious ques- 
tions, which may afford scope to men of meta- 
physical heads, b;it seldom mend the heart or 
temper. Whilst these points are beyond hu- 
man ken, it is sufficient that all our sects con- 
cur in their views of morals. You will forgive 
me for these hints. 

Well ! what think you of good lady C. ? 
It is a pity she is so deaf, and speaks so indis- 
tinctly. Her house is a specimen of the man- 
sions of our gentry of the last age, when hos- 
pitality and elevation of mind were conspicu- 
ous amidst plain fare and plain furniture. I 
shall be glad to hear from you at times, if it 
were no more than to show that you take the 
effusions of an obscure man like me in good 
part. I beg my best respects to Dr. and Mrs. 
Blacklock,* 
And am, Sir, 

Your most obedient humble servant, 

J. RAMSAY. 



No. LI. 



FROM MR. W 



Athoh House, I3th September, 1787. 
Your letter of the 5th reached me only on 
the 1 1 th ; what awkward route it had taken I 
know not ; but it deprived me of the pleasure 
of writing to you in the manner you proposed, 
as you must have left Dundee before a letter 
could possibly have got there. I hope your 
disappointment on being forced to leave us waa 
as gieat as appeared from your expressions. 
This is the best consolation for the greatness 
of ours. I still think with vexation on that 
ill-timed indisposition which lost me a day'a 
enjoyment of a man (I speak without flattery) 
possessed of those very dispositions and talents 

I most admire ; one 

. . • . You know how anxious the Duke 
was to have another day of you, and to let Mr. 
Dundas have the pleasure of your conversation 
as the best dainty with which he could enter- 
tain an honoured guest. You know likewise 
the eagerness the ladies showed to detain you ; 
but perhaps you do not know the scheme 
which they devised, with their usual fertility 
in resources. One of the servants was sent to 
your driver to bribe him to loosen or pull off a 
shoe from one of his horses, but the ambush 



before the fire, and plenty of innirich, or Highland 
soup, prepared to conclude their meal The whole fa- 
mily and their guest ate heartily, and the evening was 
spent as usual, in tellini; tales and singing songs be. 
side a theerful fire. Bed-time came ; Omeron brushed 
the hearth, spread the cow hide upon it, and desired 
the stranger to lie down. The Earl wrapped his plaid 
about him, and slept sound on the hide, whilst the 
family betook themselves to rest in a corner of the 
same room. 



* TALE OF OMERON CAMERON. 

In one of the wars betwixt the Crown of Scotland 
and the Lords of the Isles, Alexander Stewart, Earl of 
Mar (a distinguished character in the fifteenth cen- 
tury), and Donald Stewart, Earl of Caithness, had the 
commrind of the royal army. 'I'hcv marched into 
Loehaber, with a view of attacking a body of M'Don- 
alds, coniniatidid\)y Donald n.iDocli, and' posted upon 
an arm of the sea which intersects that country. Hav- 
ing timely intelligence of their .ipjiroach, the insur- 
gents got olT precipitately to the opposite shore in their 
curaghs, or boats covered with skins. The king's 
troops encamped in full security; but theM'Donalus, 
returning about midnight, surjjrised them, killed the I 
Earl of Caithness, and destroyed or dispersed the whole I 
arm y. 

The Earl of Mar escaped in the dark, without any | 
attendants, and nir.de for the more Iiilly part of the I 
country. In the course of his flight he came to the 
house of a poor man, whose name was Omeron Came- 
ron. The landlord welcomed his guest with the ut- 
most kindness ; but, as there was no meat in the house, 
he told his wife he would directly kill Moot Odiiar, 1 
to feed the stranger. " Kill our only eow !" said she, 
"our own and our little childrcn'.s principal support !" 
More attentive, however, to the present call for hospi- 
tality, than to the remonstrances of his wife, or the 
future exigencies of his family, he killed the ccVv. 
The best and tendcrest parts were immediately roasted 

* Mool Odhar, i, c. the brown humble cow. 



Next morning they had a plentiful breakfast, and at 
his departure his guest asked Cameron, if he knevr 
whom he had entertained? " You may probably," 
answered he, " be one of the king's officers ; but who- 
ever you are, you came here in distress, and here it 
\%-3s my duty to protect you. To what my cottage 
afforded, you are most welcome." — " Your guest, 
then," replied the other, " is the Earl of Mar : and if 
hereafter you fall into any misfortune, fail not to com* 
to file castle of Kildrummie." — " My blessing be with 
you 1 noble stranger, " said Omeron; " if I am ever in 
distress, you shall soon see me." 

The royal army was soon after re-assemble<l ; and the 
insurgents, finding tlicmselvcs unable to make head 
against it, dispersed. The M'DonaldS, however, got 
notice that Omeron had been the Earl's host, and 
forced him to fly the country. He came with his wife 
and children to the gate of Kildrummie Castle, and 
required admittance with a confidence which hardly 
corresponded with his habit and appearance. The 
porter fold hitn rudely, his Lordship was at dinner, and 
must not be disturbed. He became noisy and impor- 
tunate: at las; his name was announced. Upon hear- 
ing t hat it was Omeron Cameron, the Earl started from 
his seat, and is said to have exclaimed in a sort of poe- 
tical jtanita, " I was a night in his house, and fared 
ino>t plentifully; but naked of clothes was mv bed. 
Omeron from Breugach is an excellent fellow !" Ha 
was introduced into the great hall, and received with 
the welcome he deserved. Upon hearing how he had 
been tn ated, the Earl gave him a four merk land near 
the castle; and it is said there are still in the country 
a number of Camerous descended of this Uighlanq 
Euma:us> 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



27S 



failed. Proh mirum ! The driver was incor- 
ruptible. Your verses have given us much 
delight, and I think will produce their proper 
effect." They produced a powerful one im- 
mediately ; for the morning after I read them, 
we all set out in procession to the Bruar, where 
none of the ladies had been these seven or 
eight years, and again enjoyed them there. 
The passages we most admired are the descrip- 
tion of the dying trouts. Of the high ^11 
" twisting strength," is a happy picture of the 
upper part. The characters of the birds, 
" mild and mellow," is the thrush itself. The 
benevolent anxiety for their happiness and safe- 
ty I highly approve. The two stanzas be- 
ginning " Here haply too" — darkly dashing is 
most descriptively Ossianic. 



Here I cannot deny myself the pleasure of 
mentioning an incident which happened yester- 
day at the Bruar. As we passed the door of a 
most miserable hovel, an old woman curtsied 
to us with looks of such poverty, and such con- 
tentment, that each of us involuntarily gave her 
some money. She was astonished, and in the 
confusion of her gratitude, invited us in. Miss 
C. and I, that we might not hurt her delicacy, 
entered — but, good God, what wretchedness ! 
It was a cow-house — her own cottage had been 
burnt last winter. The poor tild creature stood 
perfectly silent — looked at Jliss C. then to the 
money, and burst into tears — Miss C. joined 
her, and, with a vehemence of sensibility, took 
out her purse, and emptied it into the old wo- 
man's lap. What a charming scene ! — A sweet 
accomplished girl of seventeen in so angelic a 
situation ! Take your pencil and paint her in 
your most glowing tints. — Hold her up amidst 
the darkness of this scene of human woe, to the 
icy dames that flaunt through the gaieties of life, 
without ever feeling one generous, one great 
emotion. 

Two days after you left us, I went to Tay- 
mouth. 'It is a charming place, but still I 
think art has been too busy. Let me be your 
Cicerone for two days at Dunkeld, and you 
will acknowledge that in the beauties of naked 
nature we are not surpassed. The loch, the 
Gothic arcade, and the fall of the hermitage, 
gave me most delight. But I think the last 
Las not been taken proper advantage of. The 
hermitage is too much in the common-place 
style. Every body expects the couch, the book- 
press, and the hairy gown. The Duke's idea 
I think better. A rich and elegant apartment 
is an excellent contrast to a scene of Alpine 
horrors. 

I must now beg your permission (unless you 
have some other design) to have your verses 
printed. They appear to me extremely cor- 



• " The humble petition of Bruar. Water to the 
Pukeof Athole." 



rect, and some particular stanzas would gire 
universal pleasure. Let me know, however, if 
you inchne to give them any farther touches. 

Were they in some of the public papers, we 
could more easily disseminate them among our 
friends, which many of us are anxious to do. 

When you pay your promised visit to the 
Braes of Ochtertyre, Mr. and Mrs. Graham of 
Balgowan beg to have the pleasure of conduct- 
ing you to the bower of Bessy Bell and Mary 
Gray, which is now in their possession. The 
Duchess would give any consideration for an- 
other sight of your letter to Dr. Moore ; we 
must fall upon some method of procuring it for 
her. I shall enclose this to our mutual friend 

Dr. B , who may forward it. I shall be 

extremely happy to hear from you at your first 
leisure. Enclose your letter in a cover address- 
ed to the Duke of Athole, Dunkeld. 
God bless you, 
J W 



No. LIL 



FROM MR. A- 



M- 



siR, • eth October, 1787. 

Having just arrived from abroad, I had youf 
poems put into my hands : the pleasure I re» 
ccivod in reading them, has induced me to (o* 
licit your liberty to publish them amongst a 
number of our countrymen in America, (tc 
which place I shall shortly return), and where 
they M'ill be a treat of such excellence, that i 
would be an injury to your merit and their feel- 
ing to prevent their appearing in public 

Receive the following hastily-written Unci 
from a well-wisher. 

Fair fa' your pen, my dainty Rob, 

Your leisom way o* writing. 
Whiles, glowring o'er your warks I sob. 

Whiles laugh, whiles downright greeting 
Your sonsie tykes may charm a chiel, 

Their words are wondrous bonny. 
But guid Scotch drink the truth does say 

It is as guid as ony 

Wi' you this day- 
Poor Mailie, troth, I'll nae but thinly 

Ye did the poor thing wrang. 
To leave her tether'd on the brink 

Of stank sae wide and laug ; 
Her dying words upbraid ye sair, 

Cry fye on your neglect ; 
Guid faith ! gin ye had got play fair, 

This deed had stretch'd your neck 

That mournfu' Aij. 

But, wae's me, how dare I fin* firnty 
Wi' sic u winsome bardici 

93 



St4 



BURNS' WORKS. 



"Wha great ari* sma's begun to daut, 

And tak' him by the gardie ; 
It sets na ony lawland chiel, 

Like you to verse or rhyme, 
For few like you can fley the de'il, 

And skelp auld wither'd Time 
On ony day. 

It's fair to praise ilk canty callan, 

Be he of purest fame, 
If he but tries to raise as Allan, 

Auld Scotia's bonny name ; 
To you, therefore, in humble rhyme. 

Better 1 canna gi'e. 
And tho' it's but a swatch of thine, 

Accept these lines frae mc, 

Upo' this d;iy. 

Frae Jock o' Groats to bonny Tweed, 

Frae that e'en to the line, 
In ilka place %vtiere Scotsmen bleed, 

There shall your hardship shine ; 
Ilk honest chiel wha reads your buick, 

Will there aye meet a brithcr, 
He lang may seek, and lang will look, 

Ere he fin' sic anither 

On ony day. 

Feart that my cruicket verse should spairge 

Some wark of wordie mak', 
I'se nae mair o' this head enlarge. 

But now my farewell tak' : 
Lang may you live, lang may you write, 

And sing like English Weiscbell, 
This prayer I do myself indite, 

From yours still, A M , 

This very day. 



No. Lin. 
FROM MR. J, RAMSAY, 

TO THE 

REVEREND W. YOUNG, at Erskinjs. 

t)EAR SIR, Ochtertyre, 22d Oct. 1787. 

Allow me to introduce l\Ir. Burns, whose 
poems, I dare say, have given you much plea- 
sure. Upon a personal acquaintance, I doubt 
not, you will relish the man as much as his 
works, in which there is a rich vein of intel- 
lectual ore. He has heard some of our High- 
land luinigs or songs played, which delighted 
him so much that he has made words to one 
or two of them, which will render these more 
popular. As he has thought of being in your 
quarter, I am persuaded you will not think it 
labour lost to indulge the poet of nature with a 
sample of those sw^et artless melodies, which 
only want to be married (in Milton's phrase) 
to congenial words. I wish we could conjure 



up the ghost of Joseph M'D. to infuse into OUr 
bard a portion of his enthusiasm for those ne- 
glected airs, which do not suit the fastidious 
musicians of the present hour. But if it be 
true that Corclli (whom I looked on as the 
Homer of music) is out of date, it is no proof 
of their taste ;■ — this, however, is going out of 
my province. You can show JMr. Burns the 
manner of singing these same luinigs ; and, if 
he can humour it in words, I do not despair of 
seeing one of them sung upon the stage, in the 
original style, round a napkin. 

I am very sorry we are likely to meet so sel- 
dom in this neighbourhood. It is one of the 
greatest drawbacks that attends obscurity, that 
one has so few opportunities of cultivating ac- 
quaintances at a distance. I hope, however, 
some time or other, to have the pleasure of 
beating up your quarters at Erskine, and of 
hauling you away to Paisley, &c. ; meanwhile 
I beg to be remembered to Rlessrs. Boog and 
Mylne. 

If Mr. B. goes by , give him a billet on 

our friend I\Ir. Stuart, who, I presume, does 
not dread the frown of his diocesan. 
I am, Dear Sir, 
Your most obedient humble servant, 

J. RAMSAY. 



No. LIV. 
FROM MR. RAMSAY, 

TO 

DR. BLACKLOCK. 

DEAn SIR, Ochtertyre, 21 th Oct. 1787. 

I RECEIVED yours by Mr. Burns, and give 
you many thanks for giving me an opportunity 
of conversing with a man of his calibre. He 
will, I doubt not, let you know what passed be- 
tweeu us on the subject of my hints, to which I 
have made additions, in a letter sent him t'other 
day to your care. 



"i ou may tell Mr. Burns, when you see him, 
that Colonel Edmonstoune told me t'other day, 
that his cousin. Colonel George Crawford, was 
no ]ioet, but a great singer of songs ; but that 
his eldest brother Robert (by a former marriage) 
bad a great turn that way, having written the 
words of The Bush alwoii Trnqvair, and 
Tweedside. That the Mary to whom it was 
addressed was Mary Stewart of tiie Castlemilk 
tauiily, afterwards 'wife of Mr. John Relches. 
The Colonel never saw Robert Crawford, though 
he «-as at his burial fifty-five years ago. He 
was a pretty young man, and had livetl long in 
France. Lady Ankejville is his niece, and may 
know more of his poetical vein, Au epitaph- 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



^i 



ttoager like me might ni61'alize upon the vanity 
of life, and the vanity of those sweet effusions. 
-^But I have hardly room to offer my best com- 
pliments to Mrs. Blacklock ; and I am, 
Dear Doctor, 
Your most obedient humble servant, 
J. RAMSAY. 



No. LV. 



took siicli uncominon pains to Instil into your 
minds fiom your earliest infancy ! May you live 
as he did ! if you do, you can never be unhappy- 
I feel myself grown serious all at once, and af- 
fected in a manner 1 cannot describe. I shall 
only add, that it is one of the greatest pleasiirrs 
1 promise myself before I die, that of seeing the 
family of a man who^e memory I revere more 
than that of any person that ever I was ac- 
quainted with. 

I am, my dear Friend, 

Yours sincerely, 

JOHN MdRDOCFI. 



No. LVI. 



FROJI MR. 



FROM MR. JOHN MURDOCH. 

MV DEAR SIR, London, 2Sth Oct. 1787 

As my friend, i\Ir. Brown, is going from this 
place to your neighbourhood, I embrace the op- 
portunity of telling you that I am yet alive, to- 
lerably well, and always in expectation of being 
better. By the much-valued letters before me, I 
See that it was my duty to have given you this in- 
telligence about three years and nine months ago ; 
and have nothing to allege as an excuse but that 
we poor, busy, bustling bodie* in London, are so 
much taken up with the various pursuits in which 
we are here engaged, that we seldom think of 
any person, creature, place, or thing, that is ab- 
sent. But this is not altogether the case with 
me ; for I often think of you, and Hornie, and 
Jiussel, and an unfathomcd depth, and lowan 
brunstane, all in the same minute, although you 
and they are (as I suppose) at a considerable dis- 
tance. I flatter myself, however, with the pleas- 
ing thought, that you and I shall meet some 

time or other either in Scotland or England. Your song I showed without producing the 
If ever you come hither, you will have the satis- author ; and it was judged by the Duchess to be 
faction of seeing your poems relished by the Ca- the production of Dr. Beattie. I sent a copy of 
ledonians in London, full as much as they can it, by her Grace's desire, to a Mrs. M'Pherson 
be by those of Edinburgh, Wc frequently re- in Badenoch, who sings Morag and all other 
peat some of your versus in our Caledonian so- Gaelic songs in great perfection. I have re- 
ciety ; and you may believe, that I am not a | corded it likewise, by Ladv Charlotte's desire, 



SIR, Gordon Castle, Slst October, 1797. 

If you were not sensible of your fault as well 
as of your loss in leaving this place so suddenly, 
I should condemn you to starve upon cniild hiiil 
for ae toicmont at least ; and as for Dick La- 
tine,* your travelling companion, without ban- 
ning him wi' a' the curses contained in your let- 
ter, (which he'll no value a hawhce), I should 
give Iiim nought but Stra bogie castocks to chew 
for sax oiiks, or aye until he was as sensible of 
his error as you seem to be of yours. 



little vain that I have had some share in culti- 
vating such a genius. I was not absolutely cer- 
tain that you were the author, till a few days a- 
go, when I made a visit to Mrs. Hill, Dr. 
M'Comb's eldest daughter, who lives in town, 
and who told me that she was informed of it by 
a letter from her sister in Edinburgh, with whom 
you had been in company when in that capital. 

Pray let me know if you have any intention 
of visiting this huge, overgrown metropolis ? It 
would afford matter for a large poem. Here you 
would have an opportunity of indulging your 
vein in the study of mankind, perhaps to a great- 
er degree than in any city upon the face of the 
globe ; for the inhabitants of London, as you 
know, are a collection of all nations, kindreds, 
and tongues, who make it, as it were, the centre 
of their commerce. 



Present my respectful compliments to Mrs. 
Burns, to my dear friend Gilbert, and all the 
rest of her amiable children. May the Father 
of the universe bless you all with those princi- 
ples and dispositions that the best of parents 



in a book belonging to her ladyship, where it is 
in company with a great many other poems and 
verses, some of the writers of which are no less 
eminent for their political than for their poetical 
abilities. When the Duchess was informed that 
you were the author she wished you had written 
the verses in Scotch. 

Any letter directed to me here will come to 
hand safely, and, if sent under the Duke's cover, 
it ^vill likewise come free ; that is, as long as the 
Duke is in this country. 

I am. Sir, yours sincerely. 



No. LVII. 

FROM THE REV. JOHN SKINNER. 

SIR, Linsliart, \Uh Nor. 1787. 

Your kind return without date, but of post- 
mark October S.ith, came to my hand only this 
day ; and, to testify my punctuality to my po- 



• Mr. Nicoll. 



276 



BURNS' WORKS. 



etic engagement, I sit down imniediately to an- 
swer it in kind. Your acknowledgment of ray 
poor but just encomiums on your surprising ge- 
nius, and your opinion of my rhyming eKcur- 
sions, are both, I think, by far too high. The 
difference between our two tracts of education 
and ways of life is entirely in your favour, and 
gives you the preference every manner of way. 
I know a classical education \yill not create a 
versifying taste, but it mightily improves and as- 
sists it ; and though, where both these meet, 
there may sometimes be ground for approbation, 
yet where taste appears single, as it were, and 
neither cramped nor supported by acquisition, 
I will always sustain the justice of its prior claim 
to applause. A small portion of taste, this way, 
I have had almost from childhood, especially in 
the old Scottish dialect : and it is as old a thing 
as I remember, my fondness for Christ kirk o' 
the Green, which I had by heart ere I M'as 
twelve years of age, and which, some years ago, 
I attempted to turn into Latin verse. AVhile I 
was young, I dabbled a good deal in these things ; 
but, on getting the black gown, I gave it pretty 
much over, till my daughters grew up, who, be- 
ing all good singers, plagued me for words to 
some of their favourite tunes, and so extorted 
these effusions, which have made a public appear- 
ance beyond my expectations, and contrary to 
my intentions, at the same time that I hope there 
is nothing to be found in them uncharacter- 
istic, or unbecoming the cloth, which I would 
always wish to see respected. 

As to the assistance you propose from me in 
the undertaking you are engaged in,* I am sorry 
I cannot give it so far as I could wish, and you, 
perhaps, expect. My daughters, who were my 
only intelligencers, are all foris familiate, and 
the old woman their mother has lost that taste. 
There are two from my own pen, which I might 
give you, if worth the while. One to the old 
Scotch tune of Dumhartov's Drums. 

The other perhaps you hav(! met with, as 
your noble friend the Duchess has, I am told, 
heard of it. It was squeezed out of me by a 
brother parson in her neighbourhood, to accom- 
modate a new Highland reel for the Marquis's 
birth- day, to the stanza of 

« Tune your fiddles, tune them sweetly," &c. 

If this last answer your purpose, you may 
have it from a brother of mine, Mr. James Skin- 
ner, writer in Edinburgh, who, I believe, can 
give the music too. 

There is another humorous thing, I have heard 
said to be done by the Catholic priest Geddes, 
and which hit my taste much : 

" There was a wee wifeikie was coming frae the 

fair. 
Had gotten a little dtapikie, which bred her 

meikle care ; 

• " A plan of publishing a complet* collection of 
5«otUsh Songs," &c 



It took upo' the wifie's heart, and she began to 

spew, 
And quo' the wee wifeikie, I wish I binna fou, 
I wish, Sfc. §-c. 

I have heard of another new composition, by 
a young ploughman of my acquaintance, that I 
am vastly pleased with, to the tune of The hu- 
mojirs of Glen, which I fear won't do, as the 
music, I am told, is of Irish original. I have 
mentioned these, such as they are, to show my 
readiness to ol)lige you, and to contribute my 
niite, if I could, to the patriotic work you have 
in hand, and which I wish all success to. You 
have onlv to notify your mind, and what you 
want of the above shall be sent you. 

Meantime, while you are thus publicly, I 
may say, employed, do not sheath your own 
proper and piercing weapon. From what I 
have seen of yours already, I am inclined to 
hope for much good. One lesson of virtue and 
morality, delivered in your amusing style, and 
from such as you, will operate more than dozens 
\vould do from such as me, who shall be told it 
is our employment, and be never more minded : 
whereas, firom a pen like yours, as being one of 
the many, what comes will be admired. Ad- 
miration will produce regard, and regard will 
leave an impression, especially when example 
noes alovj, 

?Jow binna saying I'm ill bred, 
Else, by my troth, I'll not be glad 
For cadgers, ye have heard it said, 

And sic like fry, 
Maun ave be harland in their trade, 

And sae maun I. 

Wih^liing y-'!U from my poet-pen, all success, 
and in my other character, all happiness and 
heavenly direction, 

I remain, with esteem, 

Your sincere friend, 

JOHN SKINNER. 



No. Lvni. 

FROM MRS. ROSS. 

SIR, Kilravock Castle, SOlh Nov. 1787. 

I HOPE you will do me the justice to believe, 
that it was no defect in gratitude for your 
punctual performance of your parting promite, 
that has made me so long in acknowledging it, 
but merely the difficulty I had in getting the 
Highland songs you wished to have, accurately 
noted ; they are at last enclosed : but how shall 
I convey along with them those graces they ac- 
quired from the melodious voice of one of the 
fair spirits of the hill of Kildrumraie ! Thest I 
must leave to your imagination to supply. It 
has powers sufficient to transport you to her 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



277 



side, to recall her accents, and to make them 
still vibrate in the ears of memory. To her I 
am indebted for getting the enclosed notes. 
They are clothed with " thoughts that breathe, 
and words that burn." These, however, being 
in an unknown tongue to you, you must again 
have recourse to that same fertile imagination 
of yours to interpret them, and suppose a lover's 
description of the beauties of an adored mistress 
— why did I say unknown ? The language of 
love is an universal one, that seems to have 
escaped the confusion of Babel, and to be un- 
derstood by all nations. 

I rejoice to find that you were pleased with 
so many things, persons, and places iu your 
northern tour, because it leads me to hope vou 
may be induced to revisit thein again. That 

the old castle of K k, and its inhabitants, 

were amongst these, adds to my satisfaction. I 
am even vain enough to admit your very flat- 
tering application of the line of Addison's ; at 
any rate, allow me to believe that " friendship 
will maintain the ground she has occupied" in 
both our hearts, in spite of absence, and that, 
when we do meet, it will be as acquaintance of 
a score of years standing } and on this footing, 
consider me as interested in the future course of 
your fame, so splendidly commenced. Any 
communications of the progress of your muse 
will be received with great gratitude, and the 
fire of your genius will have power t6 warm, 
even us, frozen sisters of the north. 

The friends of K k and K e 

unite in -cordial regards to you. When you in- 
cline to figure either in your idea, suppose some 
of us reading your poems, and some of us singing 
your songs, and my little Hugh looking at your 
picture, and you'll seldom be wrong. We re- 
member Mr. N. with as much good will as we 
do any body, who hurried Mr. Burns from us. 

Farewell, Sir, I can only contribute the 
widow's mite to the esteem and admiration ex- 
cited by your merits and genius, but this I give 
as she did, with all my heart — being sincerely 



ti-iends of Job, of affliction-bearing memory, 
when they sat down with him seven days and 
seven nights, and spake not a word. 



I am naturally of a superstitious cast, and as 
soon as my wonder-scared imagination regained 
its consciousness and resumed its functions, I 
cast. about what this mania of yours might por- 
tend. My foreboding ideas had the wide stretch 
of possibility ; and several events, great in their 
magnitude, and important in their consequences, 
occurred to my fancy. The downfal of the 
conclave, or the crushing of the cork rumps ; a 

ducal coronet to Lord George G and tho 

protestant interest ; or St. Peter's keys to . . 

You want to know how I come on. I am 
just in statu quo, or, not to insult a gentleman 
with my Latin, " in auld use and«n'ont.'' The 
noble Earl of Glencairn took me by the hand 
to-day, and interested himself in my concerns, 
with a goodness like that benevolent being, 
whose image he so richly bears. He is a 
stronger proof of the immortality of the soul, 
than any that philosophy ever produced. A 
mind like his can never die. Let the worship- 
ful squire, H. L. or the reverend Jlass J. M. 
go into their primitive nothing. At best they 
are but ill-digested lumps of chaos, only one of 
them strongly tinged with bituminous particles 
and sulphureous effluvia. But my noble pa- 
tron, eternal as the heroic swell of magnanimi- 
ty, and the generous throb of benevolence, shall 
look on with princely eye at " the war of ele- 
ments, the wreck of matter, and the crash of 
worlds." 



yours, 



E. R. 



TO- 



No. LIX. 

-DALRYMPLE, Esq. OF 
ORANGEFIELD. 



BKAR SIR, Edinburgh, 1787. 

I supposr. the devil is so elated with his suc- 
cess with you, th-at he is determined by a coup 
de main to complete his purposes on you all at 
once, in making you a poet. I broke open the 
letter you sent ine ; hummed over the rhymes ; 
and, aS I saw they were extempore, said to my- 
self they were very well : but when I saw at 
the bottom a name that I shall ever value with 1 glorious old Scotch air, in number second.* 

grateful respect, " I gapit wide but naething ^ 

■pak." I was nearly as much struck as the] » Of the Scots Musical Museum. 



The following fragments are all that now ex- 
ist of twelve or fourteen of the finest letters 
that Burns ever wrote. In an evil hour, the 
originals were thrown into the fire by the 
late Mrs. Adair of Scarborough ; the Char- 
lotte 80 often mentioned in this correspon- 
dence, and the lady to whom " The Bankt 
of the Devon" is addressed. E. 

No. LX. 

TO MISS MARGARET CHALMERS, 

(now MRS. HAY, OF Edinburgh). 

Sept. 26, 17S7. 
I SEND Charlotte the first number of the 
songs ; I would not wait for the second num- 
ber ; I hate delays in little marks of friend- 
ship, as I hate dissimulation in the language of 
the heart. I am determined to pay Charlotte 
a poetic compliment, if I could hit on some 



278 



BURNS' WORKS. 



You will see a small attempt on a shred of pa- 
per in the book ; hut though Dr. Blacklock 
commended it very highly, I am not just satis- 
fied with it myself. I intend to make it de- 
scription of some kind : the whining cant of 
love, except in real passion, and by a masterly 
hand, is to me as insufferable as the preaching 
cant of old Father Smeaton, Whig-minister at 
Kilmaurs. Darts, flames, cupids, loves, graces, 
and all that farrago, are just a Mauchline 
. — a senseless rabble. 

I got an excellent poetic epistle yesternight 
from the old, venerable author of Tullochgo- 
rum, John of Badeuyon, &c. I suppose you 
know he is a clergyman. It is by far the finest 
poetic comphment I ever got. 1 will send you 
a copy of it. 

I go on Thursday or Friday to Dumfries to 
wait on Mr. Miller about his farms — Do tell 
that to Lady M'Kenzie, that she may give me 
credit for a little wisdom. " I wisdom dwell 
with prudence." What a blessed fire-side ! 
How happy should I be to pass a winter even- 
ing under their venerable roof ! and smoke a 
pipe of tobacco, or.drink water-gruel with them ! 
What solemD, lengthened, laughter-quashing 
gravity of phiz ! What sage remarks on the 
good-for-nothing sons and daughters of indis- 
cretion and folly ! And what frugal lessons, as 
we straitened the fire-side circle, on the uses of 
the poker and tongs ! 

Miss N. is very well, and begs to be remem- 
bered in the old way to you. I used all my 
eloquence, all the persuasive flourishes of the 
hand, and heart-melting modulation of periods 
in ray power, to urge her out to Herveiston, 
but all in vain. My rhetoric seems quite to 
have lost its effect on the lovely half of man- 
kind. I have seen the day — but that is a " tale 
of other years." — In my conscience I believe 
that my heart has been so oft on fire that it is 
absolutely vitrified. I look on the sex with 
something like the admiration with which I re- 
gard the starry sky in a frosty December night. 
I admire the beauty of the Creator's workman- 
ship ; I am charmed with the wild but grace- 
ful eccentricity of their motions, and — wish 
thera good night. I mean this with respect to 
a certain passion dont j' ai eu I'honneur d'etre 
un miserable esclave : as for friendship, you 
and Charlotte have given me pleasure, perma- 
nent pleasure, " which the world cannot give, 
nor take away," 1 hope ; and which will out- 
last the heavens and the earth. 



our family), I am determined, if my Dumfries 
business fail me, to return into partnership with 
him, and at our leisure take another farm ia 
the neighbourhood. I assure you I look for 
high compliments from you and Charlotte on 
this very sage instance of my unfathomable, in- 
comprehensible wisdom. Talking of Charlotte, 
I must tell her that I have to the best of my 
power, paid her a poetic compliment, now com- 
pleted. The air is admirable : true old High- 
land. It was the tune of a Gaelic song which 
an Inverness lady sung me when I was there ; 
and I was so charmed with it that I begged her 
to write me a set of it from her singing ; for it 
had never been set before. I am fixed- that it 
shall go in Johnson's next number ; so Char- 
lotte and you need not spend your precious time 
in contradicting me. I won't say the poetry is 
first-rate ; tliough I ain convinced it is very 
well : and, what is not always th8 case with 
compliments to ladies, it is not only sincere but 
jusf. 

{Here fuUujcs the song of " The Banks oftha 
Devon.'") 



Without date. 
I HAVE been at Dumft-ies, and at one visit 
more shall be decided about a farm in that coun- 
try. I am rather hopeless in it ; but as my 
brother is an excellent farmer, and is, besides, 
an exceedingly prudent, sober man, (qualities 
which are only a younger brother's fortune in 



Edinburgh, Nov. 21, 1787. 
I HAVE one vexatious fault to the kiadlr- 
welcome, well filled sheet which I owe to your 
and Charlotte's goodness — it contains too much 
sense, sentiment, and good-spelling. It is im- 
possible that even you two, whom I declare to 
my God, I will give credit for any degree of 
excellence the sex are capable of attaining, it is 
impossible you can go ou to correspond at that 
rate ; so like those who, Shenstone says, retire 
because they have made a good speech, I shall 
after a few letters hear no more of you. I in- 
sist that you shall write whatever comes first : 
what you see, what you read, what you hear, 
what you admire, what you dislike, trifles, bag- 
atelles, nonsense ; or to till up a corner, e'en 
put down a laugh at full length. Now none 
of your polite hints about flattery : I leave that 
to your lovers, if you have or shall have any ; 
though thank heaven I have found at last two 
girls who can be luxuriantly happy in their 
own minds and with one another, without that 
commonly necessary appendage to female bliss, 

A LOVER. 

Charlotte and you are just two favourite rest- 
ing places for my soul in her wanderings through 
the weary, thorny wilderness of this world- 
God knows I am ill-fitted for the struggle : I 
glory in being a Poet, and I want to be thought 
a wise man — I would fondly be generous, and 
I wish to be rich. After all, I am afraid I am 
a lost subject. " Some folk hae a hantle o* 
fauts, an' I'm but a ne'er-do-weel." 

Afternoon. — To close the melancholy reflec- 
tions at the end of last sheet, I shall just add a 
piece of devotion commonly known in Cai'rick, 
by the title of the " Wabster's giace." 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



279 



** Some say we're fhieves, and e'en sae are we, 
Some say we lie, and e'en sae do we ! 
Guide forgie us, and I hope sae will he ! 
Up and to your looms, lads." 



Edinburrj/i, Dec. 12, J 787. 

I AM here under the care of a surgeon, with 
a bruised limb extended on a cushion ; and the 
tints of my mind vying with the livid horror 
preceding a midnight thunder-storm. A drun- 
ken coachman was the cause of the first, and 
incomparably the lightest evil ; misfortune, bo- 
dily constitution, hell and myself, have formed 
a " Quadruple Alliance" to guarantee the other. 
I got my fall on Saturday, and am getting slow- 
ly better. 

I have taken tooth and nail to the bible, and 
am got through the five books of Moses, and 
half way in Joshua. It is really a glorious 
book, I sent for my bookbinder to-day, and 
ordered him to get me an octavo bible in sheets, 
the best paper and j)rint in town ; and bind it 
v.'ith all the elegance of his craft. 

I would give my best song to my worst ene- 
my, I mean the merit of making it, to have you 
and Charlotte by. me. You are angelic crea- 
tures, and ■ would pour oil and wine into my 
wounded spirit. 

I enclose you a proof copy of the " Banks of 
the Devon," which present with my best wishes 
to Charlotte. The " Ochil-hills," you shall 
probably have next week for yourself. None of 
your fine speeches ! 



banners of imagination, whim, caprice, and 
passion ; and the heavy -armed veteran regulars 
of wisdom, prudence and fore-thought, move so 
very, very slow, that I am almost in a state of 
perpetual warfare, and alas ! frequent defeat. 
There are just two creatures that I would envy, 
a horse in his wild state traversing the forests 
of Asia, or an oyster on some of the desert 
shores of Europe. The one has not a wish 
without enjoyment, the other has neither wish 
nor fear. 



Edinhtirgh, Dec. 19, 1787. 
I BEGIN this letter in answer to yours of the 
17th current, which is not yet cold since I read 
it. The atmosphere of my soul is vastly clearer 
than when I wrote you last. For the first time, 
yesterday I crossed the room on crutches. It 
would do your heart good too see my hardship, 
not on my poetic, but on my oaken stilts ; 
throwing my best leg with an air ! and with 
as much hilarity in my gait and countenance, 
as a May frog leaping across the newly harrowed 
ridge, enjoying the fragrance of the refreshed 
earth after the long-expected shower ! 



Edinburgh, March 14, 1788. 
I KNOW, my ever dear friend, that you will 
be pleased with the news when I tell you, I 
have at last taken a lease of a farm. Yester- 
night I completed a bargain with Mr. Miller, 
of Dalswinton, for the farm of Ellisland, on the 
banks of the Nith, between five and six miles 
above Dumfries. I begin at Whitsunday to 
build a house, drive lime, &c. and heaven be 
my help ! for it will take a strong effort to 
bring my mind into the routine of business. I 
have discharged all the army of my former pur- 
suits, fancies and pleasures ; a motley host ! and 
liave literally and strictly retained only the ideas 
of a few friends, which I have incorporated into 
a life-guard. I trust in Dr. Johnson's observa- 
tion, " Where much is attempted, something is 
done." Firmness both in suilferance and exer- 
tion, is a character I would wish to be thought 
to possess ; and have always despised the whin- 
ing yelp of complaint, and the cowardly, feeble 
resolve. 



Poor Miss K. is ailing a good deal this win- 
ter, and begged me to remember her to you the 
first time I wrote you. Surely woman, amiable 
woman, is often made in vain I Too delicately 
formed for the rougher pursuits of ambition ; 
too noble for the dirt of avarice, and even too 
gentle for the rage of pleasure : formed indeed 
for and highly susceptible of enjoyment and rap- 
ture ; but that enjoyment, alas ! .ilmost wholly 
at the mercy of the caprice, raalevoleuce, stupi- 
dity, or wickedness of an animal at all times 
comparatively unfeeling, and often brutal. 



I can't say I am altogethpr at my case when 
I see any where in my path,'th;it meagre, squa- 
lid, famine-faced spectre, poverty ; attended as 
he always is, by iron- fisted oppression, and leer- 
ing contempt ; but I have sturdily withstood 
his buffetings many a hard-laboured day alreadv, 
and still my motto is — I bare ! My worst 
enemy is Moimeme. I lie so miserably open to 
the inroads and incursions of a mischievous, 
jght-aimed, weU-mouuted banditti, under the 



Mauchline, Ith April, 1788. 
I AM indebted to you and Miss Nimmo for 
letting me know Miss Kenedy. Strange ! howr 
apt we are to indulge prejudices in our judg- 
ments of one another ! Even I, who pique my- 
self on my skill in marking characters ; because 
I am too pioud of my character as a man, to be 
dazzled in my judgment /ur glaring wealth ; and 
too proiid of my situ itiou as a poor man to be 
biassed against squalid poverty; I wm unac- 
quainted with Aliss K.'9 very uncommoa wortlu 



280 



BURNS' WORKS. 



I am going; on a good deal progressive in man 
grand bdt, the sober science of life. I have 
lately made some sacrifices for which, were I 
viva voce with you to paint the situation and 
recount the circumstances, you would applaud 
me. 



get any thing to do. I wanted un but, which 
is a dangerous, an unhappy situation. I got 
this without any hanging on, or mortifying so- 
licitation ; it is immediate bread, and though 
poor in comparison of the last eighteen months 
of my existence, 'tis luxury in comparison of all 
my preceding life : besides, the commissioners 
are some of them my acquaintances, and all of 
them my firm friends. 



No date. 

Now for that wayward, unfortunate thing, 
myself. I have broke measures with . 
and last week I wrote him a frosty, keen letter. 
He replied in terms of chastisement, and pro- 
mised me upon his honour that I should have 
the account on Monday ; but this is Tuesday, 
and yet I have not heard a word from him. 
God have mercy on me ! a poor d-mned, in- 
cautious, duped, unfortunate fool ! The sport, 
the miserable victim, of rebellious pride ; h)rpo- 
chondriac imagination, agonizing sensibility, 
and bedlam passions ! 

" I wish that I were dead, but Fm no like 
to die I" I had lately " a hairbreadth 'scape in 
th' imminent deadly breach" of love too. Thank 
my stars I got off heart-whole, " waur fleyd 
than hurt." — Interruption. 

I have this moment got a hint .... 

I fear I am something 

like— undone — but I hope for the best. Come, 
stubborn pride and unshrinking resolution ! ac- 
company me through this, to me, miserable 
world ! You must not desert me ! Your friend- 
ship I think I can count on, though I should 
date my letters from a marching regiment. 
£arly in life, and all my life, I reckoned on a 
recruiting drum as my forlorn hope. Seriously 
though, life at present presents me with but a 
melancholy path : but — my limb will soon be 
sound, and I shall struggle on. 



To-morrow, 
EdinburgL 



my 



Edinburgh, Sunday, 
dear Madam, I leave 



I have altered all my plans of future life. A 
farm that 1 could live in, I could not find ; and 
indeed, after the necessary support ray brother 
and the rest of the family required, I could not 
venture on farming in that style suitable to my 
feelings. You will condemn me for the next 
step I have taken. I have entered into the ex- 
cise. I stay in the west about three weeks, and 
then return to Edinburgh for six weeks instruc- 
tions ; afterwards, for I gkt employ instantly, I 
go ou il plait a Dieit, — et mon Jioi, I have 
chosen this, my dear friend, after mature deli- 
beration. The question is not at what door of 
fortime's palace shall we enter in ; but what 
door* does she open to us ? I was not likely to 



NO. LXI. 



TO MISS CHALMERS. 

MY DEAR MADAM, Edinburgh, Dec. 1787. 

I JUST now have read yours. The poetic 
compliments I pay cannot be misunderstood. 
They are neither of them so particular as to 
point you out to the world at large ; and the 
circle of your acquaintances will allow atl I 
have said. Besides I have complimented you 
chiefly, almost solely, on yom- mental charms. 
Shall I be plain with you ? I will ; so look to it. 
Personal attractions, Madam, you have much 
above par ; wit, understanding, and worth, you 
possess in the first class. This is a cursed flat 
way of telling you these truths, but let me hear 
no more of your sheepish timidity. I know 
the world a little. I know what they will say 
of my poems ; by second sight I suppose ; for 
I am seldom out in my conjectures ; and you 
may believe me, my dear Madam, I would not 
run any risk of hurting you by an ill-judged 
compliment. I wish to show to the world, the 
odds between a poet's friends and those of sim- 
ple prosemen. More for your information botli 
the pieces go in. One of them, " Where brav- 
ing all the winter's harms," is already set — 
the tune is Neil Gow's Lamentation for Aber- 
carney ; the other is to be set to an old High- 
land air in Daniel Dow's " collection of ancient 
Scots music ; the name is Ha a Chaillich air 
mo Dheidh. My treacherous memoiy has for- 
got every circumstance about Les Incaa, only 

I think you mentioned them as being in C- *8 

possession. I shall ask him about it. I am 
afraid the song of " Somebody" will come too 
late— as I shall, for certain, leave town in a 
week for Ayrshire, and from that to Dumfries, 
but there my hopes are slender. I leave my 
direction in town, so any thing, wherever I am, 
will reach me. 

I saw your's to it is not too severe, 

nor did he take it amiss. On the contrary, 
like a whipt spaniel, he talks of being with you 

in the Christmas days. Mr. has given 

him the invitation, and he is determined to ac- 
cept of it. O selfishness ! he owns in his so- 
ber moments, that from his own volatility of 
inclination, the circumstances in which he is si- 
tuated and his knowledge of his father's dispo- 
sition, — the whole affair is chimerical— yet h« 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



281 



toill gratify an idle penchant at the enormous, 
cruel expense of perhaps ruining the peace of 
the very womao for whom he professes the ge- 
nerous passion of love ! He is a gentleman in 
his mind and manners, tant pis ! — He is a 
volatile school-boy-; the heir of a man's for- 
tune who well knows the value of two times 
two ! 

Perdition seize them and their fortunes, be- 
fore they should make the amiable, the lovely 
■ the derided object of their purse-proud 

contempt. 

I am doubly happy to hear of Mrs. 



recovery, because I really thought all was over 
with her. There are days of pleasure yet a- 
waiting her. 

" As I cam in by Glenap 
I met with an aged woman ; 
She bade me chear up my heart. 
For the best o' my days was comiug." 



No. LXIL 
TO MISS M 



-N. 



Saturday Noon, No. 2, St. James's Sqr. 
New- Town, Edinburgh, 

Here have I sat, my dear Madam, in the 
Btony attitude of perplexed study for fifteen'vex- 
atious minutes, my head askew, bending over 
the intended card ; my fixed eye insensible to 
the very light of day poured around ; my pen- 
dulous goose-feather, loaded with ink, hanging 
over the future letter ; all for the important 
purpose of writing a complimentary caid to ac- 
company your trinket. 

Compliments is such a miserable Greenland 
expression ; lies at such a chilly polar distance 
from the torrid zone of my constitution, that I 
cannot, for the very soul of me, use it to any 
person for whom I have the twentieth part of 
the esteem, every one must have for you who 
knows you. 

As I leave town in three or four days, I can 
give myself the pleasure of calling for you only 
for a minute. Tuesday evening, sometime about 
seven, or after, I shall wait oii you, for your 
farewell commands. 

The hinge of your box, I put into the hands 
of the proper Connoisseur. The broken glass, 
likewise, went under review ; but deliberative 
wisdom thought it would too much endanger 
the whole fabric. 

I am, dear Madam, . 

With all sincerity of enthusiasm. 
Your very humble Servant, 



No. LXIII. 

TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE, Edinburgh. 

Edinburgh, Sunday Morning, 
Nov. 23, 1787. 

I BEG, my dear Sir, you would not make 
any appointment to take us to Mr. Ainslie's to- 
night. On looking over my engagements, con- 
stitution, present state of my health, some little 
vexatious soul concerns, &c. I find I can't sup 
abroad to-night. 

I shall be iu to-day till one o'clock if you have 
a leisure hour. 

You will think it romantic when I tell you, 
that I "find the idea of your friendship almost 
necessary to my existence. — You assume a pro- 
per length of face iu my bitter hours of blue- 
devilism, and you laugh fully up to my highest 
wishes at my good things. — I don't know, upon 
the whole, if you are one of the fii-st fellows in 
God's world, but you are so to me. I tell you 
this just now in the conviction that some in- 
equalities in my temper and manner may per- 
haps sometimes make you suspect that I am not 
so warmly as I ought to be 

Your friend. 



No. LXIV. 

TO JOHN BALLANTINE, Esq. 

While here I sit, sad and solitary, by the 
side of a fire in a little country inn, and drying 
ni)' wet clothes, in pops a poor fellow of a sodger 
and tells me he is going to Ayr. By heavens I 
say I to myself, with a tide of good spirits which 
the magic of that sound, Auld Toon o' Ayr, 
conjured up, I will send my last song to Mr. 
Ballantine. — Here it is — 

( The first sketch of " Ye Banks and Braes o' 
Bonnie X)oon,") 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 

No. LXV. 
FROM THE POET TO DR. MOORE, 

GIVING A SKETCH OF HIS LIFE. 

SIR, Mauchlinc, 2d Aug. 1787. 

Foh some months past I have been ramb- 
ling over the country ; but I am now confined 
with some lingering complaints, originating, as 
I take it, iu the stomach. To divert my spiritt 
a little in this miserable fog of cnnui, I have ta> 
ken a whim to give you a history of myself. 
My name has made some little noise in this coua» 
56 



282 



BURNS' WORKS. 



try ; you have done me the honour to interest 
yourself very warmly in my behalf; and I think 
a faithful account of what character of a man I 
am, and how I came by that cliaracter, may per- 
haps amuse you in an idle moment. I will give 
you an honest narrative; though I know it will 
be often at my own expense ; — for I assure you, 
Sir, I have, like Solomon, whose character, ex- 
cept in the trifling affair of tvisdom, I some- 
times think I resemble, — I have, I say, like him, 
turned mi/ ei/es to behold madness and foUij, and, 
like him too, frequently shaken hands with their 
intoxicating friendship. . . . After you 
have perused these pages, should you think them 
trifling and impertinent, I only beg leave to tell 



and boyisli days, too, I owed much to an old 
woman who resided in the family, remarkable 
for her ignorance, credulity, and superstition. 
She had, I suppose, the largest collection in the 
country of tales and songs concerning devils, 
ghosts, fairies, brownies, witches, warlocks, 
spunkies, kelpies, elf-caudles, dead -lights, wraiths, 
apparitions, cantrips, giants, enchanted towers, 
dragons, and other trumpery. This cultivated 
the latent seeds of poetry ; but had so strong an 
effect on my imagination, that to this hour, in 
my nocturnal rambles, I sometimes keep a sharp 
look-out ill suspicious ])laces ; and though no- 
body can be more sceptical than I am in such 
matters, yet it often takes an effort of philosophy 



you, that the poor author wrote them uuder some to shake of these idle terrors. The earliest com- 



twitching qualms of conscience, arising from a 
suspicion that he was doing what he ought not 
to do ; a predicament he has more than once 
been in before, 

I have not the most distant pretensions to 
assume that character which the pye-coated 
guardians of escutcheons call a Gentleman. When 
at Edinburgh last winter, I got acquainted in 
the Herald's Oflice ; and, looking through that 
granary of honours, I there found almost every 
name in the kingdom ; but for me, 

" My ancient but ignoble blood 

Has crept through scoundrels ever since the 
flood." 

Gules, purpure, argent, &c. quite disowned me. 
My iather was of the north of Scotland, the 
son of a farmer, and was thrown by early mis- 
fortunes on the world at large ; where, after many 
years wanderings and sojournings, he picked up 
a pretty large quantity of observation and expe- 
rience, to which I am indebted for most of my 
little pretensions to wisdom. — I have met with 
few who understood men, their manners, and 
their u-ays, equal to him ; but stubborn, ungain- 
ly integrity, and headlong, ungovernable irasci- 
bility, are disqualifying circuuistauces ; couse- 
quently I was born a very poor man's son. For 
the' first six or seven years of my life, my fa- 
ther was a gardener to a worthy gentleman oi' 
small estate in the neighbourhood ot Ayr. Had 
he continued in that station, I must have march- 
ed ofif to be one of the little underlings about a 
farm-house; but it was his dearest wish and 
prayer to have it in his power to keep his chil- 
dren under his own eye till they could discern 
between good and evil ; so, with the assistance 
of his generous master, my father ventured on 
a small farm on his estate. At those years 
I was by no means a favourite with any body. 
I was a good deal noted for a leteiitive memory, 
a stubborn sturdy something in my disposition, 
and an enthusiastic idiot piety. I s:iy idiot \mxy, 
because I was then but a child. Though it cost 
the schoolmaster some thrashings, I made an ex- 
cellent English scholar ; and by the time I was 
ten or eleven years of age, I was a critic in sub- 
stautives, verbs; and participles. la my infant 



position that I recollect taking pleasure in, was 
Tlie Vision of Mirza, and a hymn of Addison's, 
beginning, How are tliy Servants blest, O 
Lord ! I particularly remember one half-stanza 
which was music to my boyish ears — 

" For though on dreadful whirls we hung 
High on the broken wave — " 

I met with these pieces in Mason's English 
Collection, one of my school-books. The two 
first books I ever read in private, and which 
gave me more jjleasure than any two books I 
ever read since, were, The Life of Hannibal, 
and lite History of Sir William Wallace. 
Hauni'oal gave my young ideas such a turn, that 
I used to strut in raptures up and down after the 
recruiting drum and bag-pipe, and wish myself 
tall enough to be a soldier ; «'hile the story of 
M^allace poured a Scottish prejudice into my 
veins, which will boil along there till the flood- 
gates of life shut in eternal rest. 

Polemical divinity about this time was put- 
ting the country half-mad ; and I, ambitious of 
shining in conversation parties on Sundays, be- 
tween sermons, at funerals, &c. used, a few years 
afterwards, to puzzle Calvinism with so much 
heat and indiscretion, that I raised a hue and cry 
of heresy against me, v.'hich has not ceased to 
this hour. 

My vicinity to Ayr was of some advantage 
to me. My social disposition, when not check- 
ed by some modifications of spirited pride, was, 
like our chatechism-detinition of infinitude, 
without bounds or limits. I formed several con- 
nections with other yoimkers who possessed su- 
perior advantages, the youngling actors, who 
were busy in the rehearsal of j)arts in which they 
were shortly to appear on the stage of life, 
where, alas ! I was destined to drudge behind 
the scenes. It is not commonly at this green 
age that our young gentry have a just sense of 
the immense distance between them and their 
ragged play-feilo\xs. It takes a fev/ dashes into 
the world, to give the young great man that pro- 
per, decent, uiinoticing disregard for the poor, 
insigniticant, stujiid devils, the mechanics and 
peasantry around hiui, who were perhaps bora 
in the same village. My young superiors never 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



283 



insulted the chiiterly appearance of my plough- 
boy carcass, the two extremes of which were of- 
ten exposed to all the inclemencies of all the sea 
sons. They would give me stray volumes of 
books : among them, even then, I could pick up 
some observations ; and one, whose heart I am 
sure not even the Manny Segum scenes have 
taintcil, helped me to a little French. Parting 
with these my young friends and benefactors, as 
they occasionally went off for the East or Wqst 
Indies, was often to me a sore affliction ; but I 
was soon called to more serious evils. I\Iy fa- 
ther's generous master died ; the farm proved a 
ruinous bargain; and, to clench the misfortune, 
we fell into the hands of a factor, who sat for 
the picture I have drawn of one in my Tale of 
Tiva Dogs. My father was advanced in life 
when he married ; I was the eldest of seven 
children ; and he, worn out by early hardships, 
was unfit for labour. My father's spirit was 
soon irritated, but not easily broken. There was 
a freedom in his lease in two years more ; and to 
weather these two years, we retrenched our ex- 
penses. We lived very poorly : I was a dexter- 
ous ploughman, for my age ; and the next eldest 
to me was a brother (Gilbert) who could drive 
the plough very well, and help me to thrash the 
corn. A novel writer might perhaps have view- 
ed these scenes with some satisfaction ; but so 
did not I ; my indignation yet boils at the recol- 
lection of the s 1 factor's insolent threa- 
tening letters, which used to set us all in tears. 
This kind of life — the cheerless gloom of a 
hermit, with the unceasing moil of a galley- 
slave, brought me to my sixteenth year ; a lit- 
tle before which period I first committed the sin 
of Rhyme. You know our country custom of 
coupling a man and woman together as partners 
iu the labours of harvest. In my fifteenth au- 
tumn my partner was a bewitching creature a 
year younger than myself. My scarcity of 
English denies me the power of doing her jus- 
tice in that language ; but you know the Scot- 
tish idiom — she was a hounie, sweet, sonsie lass. 
In short, she altogether, unwittingly to herself, 
initiated me in that delicious passion, which, in 
spite of acid disappointment, gin-horse prudence, 
and book-worm [jhilosophy, I hold to be the 
first of human joys, our dearest blessing here 
below ! How she caught the contagion, I can- 
not tell : you medical people talk much of in- 
fection from breathing the Vame air, the touch, 
&c. ; but I never expressly said I loved h.er. 
Indeed, I did not know myself why I liked so 
much to loiter behind with her, wlien return- 
ing in the evening from our labours ; why the 
tones of her voice made my heart-strings tlirill 
like an .iEolian harp ; and particularly why my 
pulse beat such a fmious ratan when I looked 
and fingered over her little hand to pick out the 
cruel nettle-stings and thistles. Among her 
othet love-inspiring qualities, she sung sweetly ; 
and it was her favourite reel, to which I at- 
tempted giving an embodied vehicle in rhyme. 
I was not so presumptuous as to imagiuc that I 



could make verses like printed ones, composed 
by men who had Greek and Latin ; but my 
girl sung a song, which was said to be com- 
posed by a small country laird's son, on one of his 
father's maids, with whom he was in love ; and I 
saw no reason why I might not rhyme as well as 
he ; for, excepting that he could smear sheep, and 
cast peats, his lather living in the moor-lands, 
he had no more scholar-craft than myself. 

Thus with me began love and poetrv ; 
which at times have been my only, and till 
within the last twelve months, have been my 
highest enjoyment. My father struggled on 
till he reached the freedom in his lease, when 
he entered on a larger farm, about ten miles 
farther in the country. The nature of the 
bargain he made was such as to throw a little 
ready money into his hands at the commence- 
ment of his lease ; otherwise the affair would 
have been impracticable. For four years we 
lived comfortably here ; but a difference com- 
mencing between him and his landlord, as to 
terms, after three years tossing and whirling 
in the vortex of litigation, my father was just 
saved from the horrors of a jail by a consump- 
tion, which, after two years' promises, kindly 
stepped in, and carried him away, to where the 
toicked cease from troubling, and where the 
weary are at 7-est. 

It is during the time that we lived on this 
farm that my little story is most eventful. I 
was, at the beginning of this period, perhaps 
the most ungainly, awkward boy in the parish 
— no solitaire was loss acquainted with the 
ways of the world. What I knew of ancient 
story was gathered from Salmo7i's and Guth- 
rie's geographical grammars ; and the ideas I 
had formed of modern manners, of literature, 
and criticism, I got from the Spectator. These, 
with Pope's V/orks, some plays of Shakspeare, 
Tull and Dickson on Agricidture, the Pan- 
theon, Locke's JSssay on the Human Un- 
derstanding, Sfackhouse's History of the 
Bible, Justice's Sritisti Gardener's Directory, 
Jiaylc's Lectures, Allan Ramsaijs Works, 
Taylor's Scripture Doctrine of Original Sin, 
A Select Collection of L'nglish Songs, and 
HeA'ey's Meditations, had formed the whole 
of my reading. The collection of songs was my 
vade mecum. I pored over them, driving my 
cart, or walking to labour, song by song, verse 
by verse ; carefully noting the true tender, or 
sublime, from aftectation and fustian. I am 
<;onviuccd I owe to this practice much of my cri- 
tic craft, such as it is. 

la my seventeenth year, to give my manners 
a brush, I went to a country dancing-school. — 
Tily f.ither had an unaccountable antipathy 
ag.iinst thc<e meetings ; and my going was, 
what to this moment I repent, in opposition to 
his wishes. My father, as I said before, %vas 
subject to strong passions ; from that instance 
of disobedience in mo, he took a sort of dislike 
to me, which I believe was one cause of the dis- 
sipation which marked my succeeding years. I 



984 



BURNS' WORKS. 



BJiy dissipation, comparatively with the strict- 
ness, and sobriety, and regularity of Presbyte- 
rian country life ; for though the Will-o'-\Visp 
meteors of thoughtless whim were almost the 
sole lights of my path, yet early ingrained piety 
and virtue kept me for several years afterwards 
within the line of innocence. The great mis- 
fortune of my life was to want an aim. I had 
felt early some stirrings oi' ambition, but tliev 
were the blind gropings of Homer's Cyclops 
round the walls of his cave. I s:iw my father's 
situation entailed on lue perpetual labour. The 
only two openings by which I could enter the 
temple of Fortune, was the gate of niggardly 
economy, or the path of little chicaning bargain- 
making. The first is so contracted an aperture, 
I never could squeeze myself into it ; — the last 
I always hated — there was contamination in the 
very entrance ! Thus abandoned of aim or view 
in life, with a strong appetite for sociability, as 
well from native hilarity, as from a pride of ob- 
servation and remark ; a constitutional melan- 
choly or hypochondriasm that made me fly so- 
"litude ; add to these incentives to social life, my 
reputation for bookish knowledge, a certain 
wild logical talent, and a strength of thought, 
something like the rudiments of good sense ; 
and it will not seem surprising that I was ge- 
nerally a welcome guest where I visited, or any 
great wonder that, always where two or thi-ee 
met together, there was I among them. But, 
far beyond all other impulses of my heart, was 
vn penchant a Vadorable moitee du genre hu- 
main. IVIy heart was completely tinder, and 
was eternally lighted up by some goddess or 
other ; and as in every other warfare in this 
world my fortune was various, sometimes I was 
received with favour, and sometimes T was mor- 
tified with a repulse. At the plough, scythe, 
or reap-hook, I feared no competitor, and thus 
I set absolute want at defiance ; and as I never 
cared farther for my labours than while I ^\'as 
in actual exercise, I spent the evenings in the 
Way after my own heart. A country lad sel- 
dom carries on a love adventure without an as- 
sisting confidant. I possessed a curiosity, zeal, 
and intrepid dexterity, that recommended me as 
a proper second on these occasions ; and I dare 
say, I felt as much pleasure in being in the se- 
cret of half the loves of tlie parish of Tarbolton, 
ss ever did statesmen in knowing the intrigues 
of half the courts of Europe — The very goose- 
feather in my hand seems to know instinctively 
the well-worn path of my imagination, the fa- 
vourite theme of my song ; and is with difficul- 
ty restrained from giving you a couple of para- 
giaphs on the love adventures of my comj)eers, 
the humble inmates of the farm-house and cot- 
tage ; but the grave sons of science, ambition, 
or avarice, baptize these things by the name of 
follies. To the sons and daughters of labour 
and poverty, they are matters of the most seri- 
ous nature ; to them, the ardent hope, the sto- 
«n interview, the tender farewell, are the great- 
rst and most delicious parts of theii- enjoyments. 



Another circumstance in my life whicli 
made some alteration in my mind and manners, 
was, that I spent my nineteenth summer on a 
smuggling coast, a good distance from home, at 
a noted school, to learn mensuration, surveying, 
dialling, &c. in which I made a pretty good 
progress. But I made a greater progress in .the 
knowledge of mankind. The contraband trade 
was at that time very successful, and it some- 
times happened to me to fall in with those who 
carried it on. Scenes of swaggering riot and 
roaring dissipation were till this time new to 
me ; but I was no enemy to social life. Here, 
though I learnt to fill my glass, and to mix 
without fear in a drunken squabble, yet I went 
on with a high hand with my geometry, till the 
sun entered Virgo, a month which is always a 
carnival in my bosom, when a charming ^/eMe, 
who lived next door to the school, overset my 
trigonometry, and set me off at a tangent from 
the sphere of my studies. I, however, struggled 
on with my sines, and co-sines, for a few days 
more ; but stepping into the garden one charm- 
ing noon to take the sun's altitude, there 1 met 
my angel, 

" Like Proserpine, gathering flowers, 
Herself a fairer flower." 

It was in vain to think of doing any more 
good at school. The remaining week I staid, 
I did nothing but craze the faculties of my soul 
about her, or steal out to meet her ; and the 
two last nights of my stay in the country, had 
sleep been a mortal sin, the image of this mcv- 
dest and innocent girl had kept me guiltless. 

I returned home very considerably improv- 
ed. My reading was enlarged with the very 
important addition of Thomson's and Shen- 
stone's Works ; I had seen human nature in a 
new phasis ; and I engaged several of my 
school-fellows to keep up a literary correspon- 
dence with me. This improved me in compo- 
sition. I had met with a collection of letters 
by the wits of Queen Anne's reign, and I pored 
over them most devoutly : I kept copies of any 
of my own letters that pleased me ; and a com- 
parison between them and the composition of 
most of my corresjjondents flattered my vanity. 
I carried this whim so far, that though I had 
not three farthings worth of business in the 
world, yet almost every post brought me at 
many letters as if I had been a broad plodding 
son of day-book and ledger. 

I\Iy life flowed on much in the same course 
till my twenty-third year. Vive I'amour, et 
five la bagatelle, were my sole principles of ac- 
tion. The addition of two more authors to mj 
library gave me great pleasure ; Sterne and 
M-Kenzie — Tristram Shandy and The Man 
of Feeling — were my bosom favourites. Poesy 
was still a darhng walk for my mind j but it 
was only indulged in according to. the humour 
of the hour. I had usually half a dozen or mort 
pieces on hand ; I took up one or other, as it 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



265 



(Suited tlie momentary tone of the mind, and 
dismisseJ the work as it bordered on fatigue. 
My passions, when once lighted up, raged lilce 
so many devils, till they got vent in rhyme ; and 
then the conning over my versos, like a spell, 
soothed all into quiet ! None of the rhymes of 
those days are in print, except Winter, a Dirt/e. 
the eldest of my ])riiited pieces ; T/ie Death of 
Poor MaiUc, John Barleycorn, and Songs, 
first, second, and third. Song second was the 
ebullition of that passion which ended the fore- 
mentioned school business. 

My twenty-tliird year w;is to me an import- 
ant era. Partly through whim, and partly 
that I wished to set about doing something in 
life, I joined a flax-dresser in a neighbouring 
town (Irvine) to learn his trade. This was 

an unlucky atfair. My ; and, to 

finish the whole, as we were giving a welcome 
carousal to the new year, the shop took fire, 
and hinnt to ashes ; and I was left, like a true 
poet, :i;:t worth a sixpence, 

1 v.as oi)!iged to give up this scheme : the 
clouds of misfortune were gathering thick round 
my father's head ; and, what was worst of all, 
he was visibly far gone in a consumption ; and, 
to crown my distresses, a hdle fille, whom I 
adored, and who had pledged her soul to meet 
me in the field of matrimony, jilted me, with 
peculiar circumstances of mortification. The 
finishing evil that brought up the rear of this 
infernal file, was, my constitutional melancholy 
being increased to such a degree, that for three 
months I was in a state of mind scarcely to be 
envied by the hopeless wretches who have got 
their mittimus — Depart from me, ye cursed ! 

From this adventure, I learned something 
of a town life ; but the principal thing which 
gave my mind a turn, was a friendship I form- 
ed with a young fellow, a very noble character, 
but a hapless son of misfortune. He was the 
son of a simple mrchanio ; but a great man in 
the neighbourhood taking him under his pa- 
tronage, gave him a genteel education, with a 
vievv of bettering his situation in life. The 
patron dying just as he was ready to launch out 
into the world, the poor fellow in despair went 
to sea ; where, after a variety of good and ill 
fortune, a little before I v/as acquainted with 
Lira, he had been set ashore by an American 
privateer, on the wild coast of Connaugbt, 
stripped of every thing. I cannot quit this poor 
fellow's story, without adding, that he is at this 
time master of a large West Indiaman belonging 
to the Thames. 

His mind was fraught with independence, 
magnanimity, and every manly virtue. 1 loved 
and admired him to a degree of enthusiasm, 
and of course strove to imitate him. In some 
measure, I succeeded ; I had pride before, but 
he taught it to flow in proper channels. His 
knowledge of the world was vastly superior to 
mine, and I was all attention to' learn. He was 
the only man I ever saw who was a greater 
i»o\ than myself, where woman waa the presid- 



ing star ; but he spoke of illicit love with the 
levity of a sailor, which hitherto I had regnnleJ 
with horror. Here his friendship did me a mis- 
chief ; and the consequence was, that soon after 
I resumed the plough, I wrote the Poet's Wel- 
come.* BIy reading only increased, while in 
this town, by two stray volumes of Pamela, and 
one of Ferdinand Count Fathom, which gave 
me some idea of novels. ■ Rhyme, except some 
religious pieces that are in print, I had given 
up ; but meeting with Fergnsson's Scottish 
Poems, I strung anew my wildly-sounding lyre 
with emulating vigour. When my father died, 
his all went among the hell-hounds that prowl 
in the kennel of justice ; but we made a shift 
to collect a little money in the family amongst 
us, with which, to keep us together, my brother 
and I took a neighbouring farm. My brother 
wanted my hair-brained imagination, as well as 
my social and amorous madness ; but, in good 
sense, and every sober qualification, he was far 
my superior. 

I entered on this farm with a full resolution. 
Come, go to, I will be wise ! I read farming 
books ; I calculated crops ; I attended markets ; 
and, in short, in spite of the devil, and the 
world, and the flesh, I believe I should have 
been a wise man ; but the first year, from un- 
fortunately buying bad seed, the second, from a 
late harvest, we lost half our crops. This over- 
set all my wisdom, and I returned, like the dog 
to his vomit, and the sow that was washed, to 
her wallowing in the mire, 

I now began to be known in the neigh- 
bourhood as a maker of rhymes. The first of 
ray poetic offspring that saw the light, wm a 
burlesque lamentation on a quarrel between two 
reverend Calvinists, both of them dramatis per- 
sona in my Holy Fair. I had a notion my- 
self, that the piece had some merit ; but to pre- 
vent the worst, I gave a copy of it to a friend 
who was very fond of such things, and told him 
that I could not guess who v/as the author of 
it, but that I thought it pretty clever. With 
a certain description of the clergy, as well as 
laity, it met with a roar of applause. Holy 
Willie's Prayer next made its appearance, and 
alarmed the kirk-session so much, that they 
held several meetings to look over their spiritual 
artillery, if haply any of it miirht be pointed 
against profane rhymers. Unluckily for me, 
my wanderings led me on another side, within 
point blank shot of their heaviest metal. This 
is the unfortunate story that gave rise to my 
printed poem, The Lament. This was a most 
melancholy affair, which I cannot yet bear to 
reflect on, and had very nearly given me one or 
two of the principal qualifications for a place 
among those who have lost the chart, and mis- 
taken the reckoning of Rationality. I gave up 
my part of the farm to my brother ; in truth it 
was otdy nominally mine ; and made what little 



• Rob the Rhymer's Welcome to his Bastard 
ChUd, 



BURNS' WORKS. 



preparation was in my power for Jamaica. But, 
before leaving my native country for ever, I re- 
solved to publish my poems. I weighed my 
productions as impaitially as was in my pou-in- ; 
I thought they had merit ; and it was a deli- 
cious idea that 1 should be called a clever fel- 
low, even though it should never reach my 
ears — a poor negro-driver, — or perhaps a vic- 
tim to that inhospitable clime, and gone to the 
world of spirits ! I can truly say, that pauvre 
inconnu as I then was, I had pretty nearly as 
high an idea of myself and of my works as I 
have at this moment, when the public has de- 
cided in their favour. It ever wiis my opini- 
on, that the mistakes and blunders, both in a 
rational and religious point of view, of which 
we see thousands daily guilty, are owing to 
their ignorance of themselves. — To kno^v my- 
self, had been all along ray constant study. I 
weighed myself alone ; I balanced myself with 
others ; I watched every means of information, 
to see how much ground I occupied as a man 
and as a poet : I studied assiduously nature's 
design in my formation — wlsere the lights and 
shades in my character were intended. I was 
pretty confident my poems would meet with 
some applause ; but, at the worst, the roar of 
the Atlantic would deafen the voice of censure, 
and the novelty of West Indian scenes make me 
forget neglect. I threw off six hundred copies, 
of which I had got subscriptions for about three 
hundred and fifty. — My vanity was highly gra- 
tified by the reception I met with from the 
public ; and besides I pocketed, all expenses 
deducted, nearly twenty pounds. This sum 
came very seasonably, as I was thinking of in- 
denting myself, for want of money to procure 
my passage. As soon as I was master of nine 
guineas, the price of wafting me to the torrid 
zone, I took a steerage passage in the first ship 
that was to sail from the Clyde ; for 

" Hungry ruin had me in the wind." 



age of one of the noblest of men, the Earl of 
Glencairn. Onblie moi, Grand Dieu, si ja- 
mais jc Touhlie ! 

I need relate no farther. At Edinburgh I 
was in a new world ; I m.ingled among many 
classes of men, but all of them new to me, and 
I was all attention to catch the characters and 
the manners living as they rise. Whether I 
have profited, time will show. 



!My most respectful compliments to Miss W. 
Her very elegant and friendly letter I cannot an- 
swer at present, as my presence is requisite ia 
Edinburgh, and I set out to-morrow.* 



I had been for some days skulking from 
covert to covert, under all the terrors of a jail ; 
as some ill-advised people had uncoupled the 
merciless pack of the law at my heels. I had 
taken the last farewell of my few friends ; my 
chest was on the road to Greenock ; I had com- 
posed the last song I should ever measure in 
Caledonia, The gloomy night is gathering fast, 
when a letter from Dr. Blacklock, to a friend 
of mine, overthrew all my schemes, by opening 
new prospects to my poetic ambition. The 
Doctor belonged to a set of critics, for whose 
applause I had not dared to hope. His opi- 
nion that I would meet with encouragement in 
Edinburgh fur a second edition, fired me so 
much, that away I posted for that city, with- 
out a single acquaintance, or a single letter of 
introduction. The baneful star, that had so 
iOng shed its blasting influence in my zenith, 
for once made a revolution to the nadir ; and 
{I kind Providence placed me under the patron- 



No. LXVI. 
FROM GILBERT BURNS. 

A nuNNING COMMENTARY ON THE FORE- 
COING. 

The farm was upwards of seventy acres f 

(between eighty and ninety English statute 
measure), the rent of which was to be forty 
pounds annually for the first six years, and af- 
terwards forty-five pounds. My father endea- 
voured to sell his leasehold property, for the 
purpose of stocking this farm, but at that time 
was unable, and Mr. Ferguson lent him a hun- 
dred pounds for that jiurpose. He removed to 
his new situation at Whitsuntide, 1766. It was, 
I think, not above two years after this, that 
Murdoch, our tutor and friend, left this part of 
the countrv ; and there being no school near us, 
and our little services being useful on the farm, 
my father undertook to teach us arithmetic in 
the winter evenings, by candle-light; and in this 
way my two eldest sisters got all the education 
they received. I remember a circumstance that 
happened at this time, which, though trifling 
in itself, is fresh in my memory, and may serve 
to illustrate the early character of my brother. 
INIurdoch came to spend a night with us, and to 
take his leave when he was about to go into 
Carrick. He brought us, as a present and me- 
morial of him, a small compendium of English 
Gramm:ir, and the tragedy of Titus Androni- 
cus ; and by way of passing the evening, he be- 
gan to read the play aloud. We were all atten- 
tion for some time, till presently the whole par- 
ty was dissolved in tears. A female in the play 
(I have but a confused remembrance of it) had 



» There are various copies of this letter, in the au- 
thor's handwriting; undone of these, evidently cor- 
rected, is in the l)ook in which he had copied several 
of his letters. Tliis has been used for the press, with 
some omissions, and one slight alteration silggested by 
Gilbert Liurns. 

t Letter of Gilbert Bums to Mrs. Dunlop. The 
name of this farm is Mount OUphant, in Ayr parish. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



887 



her tanclg chopt off, and lier tongue cut out, 
and then was insultingly desired to call for wa- 
ter to wash her hands. At this, in an agony of 
distress, we with one voice desired he would 
read no more. JMy father observed, that if we 
would not hear it out, it would be needless to 
leave the play with us. Robert replied, that if 
it was left he would burn it. My father was 
going to chide him for this ungrateful return to 
his tutor's kindness ; but Murdoch interfered, de- 
claring that he liked to see so much sensibility ; 
and he left The School for Love, a comedy 
(translated, I think, from the French), in its 
place. 

Nothing could be more retired than our ge- 
neral manner of living at Jlount Oliphant ; 
we rarely saw any body but the members of 
our own fimiily. There were no boys of our 
own age, or near it, in the neighbourhood. 
Indeed the greatest part of the land in the 
vicinity was at that time possessed by shop- 
keepers, and people of that stamp, who had 
retired from business, or who kept their farm 
in the country, at the same time that they fol- 
lowed business in town. My father was for 
Eome time almost the only companion we had. 
He conversed familiarly on all subjects with us, 
as if we had been men ; and was at great pains, 
while we accompanied him in the labours of the 
farm, to lead the conversation to such subjects 
as might tend to increase our knowledge, or 
confirm us in virtuous habits. He borrowed 
Salmon s Geographical Grammar for us, and 
endeavoured to make us acquainted with the 
situation and history of the different countries 
in the world ; while, from a book-society ia 
Ayr, he procured for us the reading of Z)er- 
ham's Physico and Astro - Theology, and 
Hay's Wisdom of God in the Creation, to 
give us some idea of astronomy and natural his- 
tory. Robert read all these books with an avi- 
dity and industry scarcely to be equalled. My 
father had been a subscriber to Stackhouse's 
History of the Bible, then lately published by 
James Meuros in Kilmarnock : from this 
Robert collected a competent knowledge of an- 
cient history ; for no book was so voluminous 
as to slacken his industry, or so antiquitated as 
to damp his researches. A brother of my mo- 
ther, who had lived with us some time, and 
had learnt some arithmetic by our winter even- 
ing's candle, went into a bookseller's shop in 
Ayr, to purchase The Ready Reckoner, or 
Tradesman's .sure Guide, and a book to teach 
him to write letters. Luckily, in place of The 
Complete Letter- Writer, he got, by mistake, 
a small collection of letters by the most emi- 
nent writers, with a few sensible directions for 
attaining an easy epistolary style. This book 
was to Robert of the greatest consequence. It 
inspired him with a strong desire to excel in 
letter-writing, while it furnished him with mo- 
dels by some of the first writers in our lan- 
guage. 

My brother was about thirteen or fourteeoi 



when my father, regretting that we wrote so 
ill, sent us week about, during a summer quar- 
ter, to the parish school of Dalrymple, which, 
though between two and three miles distant, 
was the nearest to us, that we might have an 
opportunity of remedying this defect. About 
this time a bookish acquaintance of my father's 
procured us a reading of two volumes of Rich- 
ardson's Pamela, which wa's t'ne first novel we 
read, and the only part of Richardson's works 
my brother was acquainted with till towards 
the period of his commencing author. Till that 
time too he remained unacquainted with Field- 
ing, with SmoUet, (two volumes of Ferdinand 
Count Fathom, and two volumes of Peregrine 
Pickle excepted), with Hume, with Robertson, 
and almost all our authors of eminence of the 
later times. I recollect indeed my father bor- 
rowed a volume of English history from Mr. 
Hamilton of Bourtree-hill's gardener. It treat- 
ed of the reign of James the First, and his un- 
fortunate son Charles, but I do not know who 
was the author ; all that I remember of it is 
something of Charles's conversation with his 
children. About this time Murdoch, our for- 
mer teacher, after having been in different 
phices in the country, and having taught a 
school some time iu Dumfries, came to be the 
established teacher of the English language in 
Ayr, a circumstance of considerable consequence 
to us. The roraerabrauce of my father's former 
friendship, and his attachment to my brother, 
made him do every thing in his power for our 
improvement. He sent us Pope's works, and 
some other poetry, the first that we had an op- 
portunity of reading, excepting what is con- 
tained in The JEnglish Collection, and in the 
volume of The Edinburgh Magazine ior 1772 ; 
excej)ting also those excellent new songs that 
are hawked about the country in baskets, or 
exposed on stalls in the streets. 

The summer after we had been at Dalrym- 
ple school, my father sent Robert to Ayr, to 
revise his English grammar, with his former 
teacher. He had been there only one week, 
when he was obliged to return, to assist at the 
harvest. When the harvest was over, he went 
back to school, where he remained two weeks ; 
and this completes the account of his school 
education, excepting one summer quarter, some 
time afterwards, that he attended the parish 
school of Kirk-Oswald (where he lived with a 
brother of my mother's) to learn surveying. 

During the two last weeks that he was with 
Murdoch, he himself was engaged in learning 
French, and he communicated the instructions 
he received to my brother, who, when he return- 
ed, brought home with him a French dictionary 
and grammar, and the Adventures of Telema- 
clius in the original. In a little while, by the 
assistance of these books, he had acquired such a 
knowledge of the language, as to read and un- 
derstand any French author in prose. This 
was considered as a sort of prodigy, and, through 
the medium of Murdoch, procured him the ao 



288 



BURNS* WORKS. 



quaintance of several lads in Ayr, who were at 
that time gabbling French, and the notice of 
some families, particularly that of Dr. Malcolm, 
where a knowledge of French was a recommen- 
dation. 

Observing the facility with which he had 
acquired the French language, Jlr. Robinson, 
the established writing-master in Ayr, and Mr. 
Murdoch's particular friend, having himself ac- 
quired a considerable knowledge of the Latin 
language by his own industry, witliout ever ha- 
ving learned it at school, advised Robert to make 
the same attempt, promising him every assist- 
ance in his power. Agreeably to this advice, he 
purchased 2'lie HudimEiits qf'the Latin Tongue, 
but finding tliis study dry and uninteresting, it 
was quickly laid aside. He frequently returned 
to his Rudiments on any little chagrin or dis- 
appointment, particularly in his love affairs ; 
but the Latin seldom predominated more than a 
day or two at a time, or a week at most. Ob' 
serving himself the ridicule that-would attach to 
this sort of conduct if it were known, he made 
two or three humorous stanzas on the subject, 
which I cannot now recollect, but they all ended, 

" So I'E to my Latin again.' 

Thus you see Mr. Murdoch was a principal 
means of my brother's improvement. Worthy 
man ! though foreign to my present purpose, I 
cannot take leave of him without tracing his 
future history. He continued for some years a 
respected and useful teacher at Ayr, till one 
evening that he had been overtaken in liquor, 
he happened to speak somewhat disrespectfully 
of Th. Dakymple, the parisli minister, who had 
not paid him that attention to which he thought 
himself entitled. In Ayr he might as well have 
spoken blasphemy. He found it proper to give 
up his appointment. He went to London, where 
he still lives, a private teacher of French. He 
has been a considerable time married, and keeps 
a shop of stationery wares. 

The father of Dr. Paterson, now pliysician at 
Ayr, was, I believe, a native of Aberdeenshire, 
and was one of the established teachers in Ayr 
when my father settled in the neighbourhood. 
He early recognised my fatlier as a fellow na- 
tive of the north of Scotland, and a certain de- 
gree of intimacy subsisted between them during 
Mr. Paterson's life. After his death, his widow, 
who is a very genteel woman, and of great 
worth, delighted in doing what she thought her 
husband would have wished to have done, and 
assiduously kept up her attentions to all his ac- 
quaintance. She kept alive the intimacy with 
our family, by frequently inviting my father and 
mother to her house on Sundays, when she met 
tliem at church. 

When she came to know my brother's passion 
for books, she kindly offered us the use of her 
husband's library, and from her we got the 
Spectator, Pope's Translation of Homer, and 
several other books that were of use to us. 



Mount Oliphant, the farm my father potsessed 
in the parish of Ayr, is almost the very poorest 
soil I know of in a state of cultivation. A 
stronger proof of this I cannot give, than that, 
notwithstanding the extraordinary rise ia the 
value of lands in Scotland, it was, after a con- 
siderable sum laid out in improving it by the 
proprietor, let, a few years ago, five pounds per 
annum lower than the rent paid for it by my 
father thirty years ago. iNIy father, in conse- 
quence of this, soon came into difficulties, which 
were increased by the loss of several of his cattle 
by accidents and disease. — To the buSFetings of 
misfortune we could only oppose hard labour and 
the most rigid economy. We lived very spa- 
ringly. For several years butcher's meat was a 
stranger in the house, while all the members of 
the family exerted themselves to the utmost of 
their strength, and rather beyond it, in the la- 
bours of the farm. My brother, at the age of 
thirteen, assisted in thrashing the crop of com, 
and at fifteen was the principal labourer on the 
farm, for we had uo hired servant, male or fe- 
male. The anguish of mind we felt at our ten- 
der years, under these straits and difficulties, 
was very great. To think of our father grow- 
ing old, (for he was now above fifty), broken 
down with the long continued fatigues of his 
life, with a wife and five other children, and in 
a declining state of circumstances, these reflec- 
tions produced in my brother's mind and mine 
sensations of the deepest distress. I doubt not 
but the hard labour and sorrow of this pe- 
riod of his life, was in a great measure the cause 
of that depression of spirits with which Robert 
was so often afflicted through his whole life af- 
terwards. At this time he was almost con- 
stantly afflicted in the evenings with a dull 
headache, which, at a future period of his life, 
was exchanged for a palpitation of the heart, 
and a threatening of fainting and su£focation in 
his bed, in the night-time. 

By a stipulation in my father's lease, he had 
a right to throw it up, if he thought proper, at 
the end of every sixth year. He attempted to 
fix himself in a better farm at the end of the 
first six years, but failing in that attempt, he 
continued where he was for six years more. He 
then took the farm of Lochlea, of ISO acres, at 
the rent of twenty shillings an acre, in the pa- 
rish of Tarbolton, of Mr. , then 

a merchant in Ayr, and now (1797) a merchant 
in Liverjjool. He removed to this farm at 
Whitsunday, 1777, and possessed it' only seven 
years. No writing had ever been made out of 
the conditions of the lease ; a misunderstanding 
took place respecting them ; the subjects in dis- 
pute were submitted to arbitration, and the de- 
cision involved my father's affairs in ruin. He 
lived to know of this decision, but not to see any 
execution in consequence of it. He died on the 
13th of February, 1784, 

The seven years we lived in Tarbolton parish 
(extending from the seventeonth to the twenty- 
fourth of my brother's age), were not marke4 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



28d 



bv mucn literary improvement ; but during 
tnis time the foundation was laid of certain ha- 
bits in my brother's character, which afterwards 
became but too prominent, and which malice 
and envy have taken delight to enlarge on. 
Though, when young, he was bashful and awk- 
ward in his intercourse with women, yet when 
he approached manhood, his attachment to their 
society became very strong, and he was con- 
stantly the victim of some fair enslaver. The 
symptoms of his passion were often such as 
nearly to equal those of the celebrated Sappho. 
I never indeed knew that he fainted, sunk, and 
died away ; but the agitations of his mind and 
body exceeded any thing of the kind I ever 
knew in real life. He had always a particular 
jealousy of people who were richer than liim- 
self, or who had more consequence in life. His 
love, therefore, rarely settled on persons of this 
description. When he selected any one, out of 
the sovereignty of his good pleasure, to whom 
he should pay his particular attention, she was 
instantly invested with a sufficient stock of 
charms, out of the plentiful stores of his own 
imagination ; and there was often a great dis- 
similitude between his fair captivator, as she 
appeared to others, and as she seemed when in- 
vested with the attributes he gave her. One 
generally reigned paramount in his affections ; 
but as Yorick's aflfections flowed out toward 

Madame de L at the remise door, while 

the eternal vows of Eliza were upon him, so 
Robert was frequently encountering other at- 
tractions, which formed so many under plots in 
the drama of his love. As these connections 
were governed by the strictest rules of virtue 
and modesty (from which he never deviated till 
he reached his 23d year), he became anxious to 
be in a situation to marry. This was not likely 
to be soon the case while he remained a farmer, 
as the stocking of a farm required a sum of 
money he had no probability of being master of 
for a great while. He began, therefore, to think 
of trying some other line of life. He and I had 
for several years taken land of my father for the 
purpose of raising flax on our own account. In 
the course of selling it, Robert began to think 
of turning flax-dresser, both as being suitable to 
his grand view of settling in life, and as sub- 
servient to the flax raising. He accordingly 
wrought at the business of a flax-dresser in 
Irvine for six months, but abandoned it at that 
period, as neither agreeing with his health nor 
inclination. In Irvine he had contracted some 
acquaintance of a freer manner of thinking and 
living than he had been used to, whose society 
prepared him for overleaping the bounds of rigid 
virtue which had hitherto restrained him. To- 
wards the end of the period under review (in 
his 24th year J, and soon after his father's death, 
he was furnished with the subject of his epistle 
to John Rankin. During this period also he 
became a freemason, which was his first intro- 
duction to the life of a boon companion. Yet, 
notwithstanding these circumstances, and the 



praise he has bestowed on Scotch drink (which 
seems to have misled his historians), I do not 
recollect, during these seven years, nor till to- 
wards the end of his commencing author (when 
his growing celebrity occasioned his being often 
in company), to have ever seen him intoxicated; 
nor was he at all given to drinking. A stronger 
proof of the general sobriety of his conduct need 
not be required than what I am about to give. 
During the whole of the time we lived in the 
farm of Lochlea with my father, he allowed my 
brother and me such wages for our labour as he 
gave to other labourers, as a part of which, 
every article of our clothing manufactured in 
the family was regularly accounted for. When 
my father's aflFairs drew near a crisis, Robert 
and I took the farm of Mossgiel, consisting of 
1 18 aores, iit the rent of £90 per annum (the 
farm on which I live at present) from Mr. Ga- 
vin Hamilton, as an asylum for the family in 
case of the worst. It was stocked by the pro- 
perty and individual savings of the whole family, 
and was a joint concern among us. Every mem- 
ber of the family was allowed ordinary wages 
for the labour he performed on the farm. My 
brother's allowance and mine was seven pounds 
per annum each. And during the whole time 
this family concern lasted, which was four years, 
as well as during the preceding period at Loch- 
lea, his expenses never in one year exceeded his 
slender incoine. As I was intrusted with the 
keeping of the family accounts, it is not possi- 
ble that there can be any fallacy in this state- 
ment in my brother's favour. His temperance 
and frugality were every thing that could be 
wished. 

The farm of Mossgiel lies very high, and 
mostly on a cold wet bottom. The first four 
years that we were on the farm were very frosty, 
and the spring was very late. Our crops in 
consequence were very unprofitable ; and, not- 
withstanding our utmost diligence and economy, 
we found ourselves obliged to give up our bar- 
gain, with the loss of a considerable part of our 
original stock. It was during these four years 
that Robert formed his connection with Jean 
Armour, afterwards Mrs. Burns. This connec- 
tion coidd no longer he concealed, about the 
time we came to a final determination to quit 
the farm. Robert durst not engage with a 
family in his poor unsettled state, but was an- 
xious to shield his partner by every means in 
his power from the consequences of their im- 
prudence. It was agreed therefore between 
them, that they should make a legal acknow- 
ledgment of an irregular and private marriage ; 
that he should go to Jamaica, to push his for- 
tune ; and that she should remain with her 
father till it mi,i;ht please Providence to put tha 
means of supporting a family in his power. 

Mrs. Bums was a great favourite of her fii- 
thei's. The intimation of a private marriage 
was the first suggestion he received of her rea 
situation. He was in the greatest distress, and 
fainted away. The marriage did not appear tO 
57 



290 



BURNS' WORKS. 



kim to make the matter any better. A hus- 
band in Jamaica appeared to him and to his wife 
little better than none, and an effectual bar to 
any other prospects of a settlement in life that 
their daughter might have. Thpy therefore ex- 
pressed a wish to her, that the written papers 
which respected the marriage should bd cancel- 
led, and thus the marriage rendered void. In 
her melancholy state she felt tlie deepest remorse 
at having brought such heavy affliction on pa- 
rents that loved her so tenderly, and submitted 
to their entreaties. Their wi'ih was mentioned 
to^ Robert. He felt the deepest anguish of 
mind. He offered to stay at home and provide 
for his wife and family in the best manner that 
his daily labours could provide for them ; that 
being the only means in his power. Even this 
offer they did not approve of ; for, humble as 
Miss Armour's station was, and great though 
her imprudence had been, she still, in the eyes 
of her partial parents, might look to a better 
connexion than that with my friendless and un- 
happy brother, at that time without house or 
hiding-place. Robert at length consented to 
their wishes ; but his feelings on this occa.sion 
Were of the most distracting nnturc ; and the 
impression of sorrow was not effaced, till by a 
regular marriage they were indissolubly united. 
In the state of mind which this separation pro- 
duced, he wished to leave the country as soon 
as possible, and agreed with Dr. Douglas to go 
out to Jamaica as an assistant overseer, or, as 1 
believe it is called, a book-keeper, on his estate. 
As he had not sufficient money to pay his pas- 
sage, and the vessel in which Dr. Douglas was 
to procure a passage for him was not expected 
to sail for some time, Mr. Hamilton advised him 
to publish his poems in the meantime by sub- 
■cription, as a likely way of getting a little mo- 
ney to provide him more liberally in necessaries 
for Jamaica. Agreeably to this advice, sub- 
scription bills were printed immediately, and 
the printing was commenced at Kilmarnock, 
his preparations going on at the same time for 
bis voyage. The reception, however, which 
bis poems met with in the world, and the friends 
they procured him, made him change his reso- 
lution of going to Jamaica, and he was advised 
to go to Edinburgh to publish a second edition. 
On his return, in happier circumstances, he re- 
newed his connexion with Mrs. Burns, and ren- 
dered it permanent by a union for life. 

Thus, Madam, have I endeavoured to give 
you a simple narrative of the leading circum- 
stances in my brother's early life. The remain- 
ing part he spent in Edinburgh or in Dumfries- 
shire, and its incidents are as well known to 
you as to me. His genius having procured him 
your patronage and friendship, this gave rise to 
the correspondence between you, in which, I 
believe, his sentiments were delivered with the 
most respectful, but mSst unreserved confidence, 
and which only terminated with the last days of 
lui life. ' 



No. LXVII. 
FROM MR. MURDOCH 

TO 

DR. MOORE, 

AS TO THE poet's EARLY TUITIOK. 



I WAS lately favoured with a letter from our 
worthy friend, the Rev. William Adair, in which 
he requested me to communicate to you what- 
ever particulars I could recollect concerning 
Robert Burns, the Ayrshire poet. My business 
being at present multifarious and harassing, my 
attention is consequently so much divided, and I 
am so little in the habit of expressing my thoughts 
on paper, that at this distance of time'l can give 
but a very imperfect sketch of the early part of 
the life of that extraordinary genius with which 
alone I am acquainted. 

William Burnes, the father of the poet, was 
born in the shire of Kincardine, and bred a 
gardener. He had been settled in Ayrshire teu 
or twelve years before I knew him, and had 
been in the service of Mr. Crawford of Doon- 
side. He was afterwards employed as a gar- 
dener and overseer by Provost' Ferguson of 
Doonholm, in the parish of Alloway, which is 
now united with thit of Ayr. In this parish, 
on the road side, a Scotch mile and a half fi-oiti 
the town of Ayr, and half a mile from the 
bridge of Doon, William Burnes took a piece 
of land, consisting of about seven acres, part of 
which he laid out in garden ground, and pai-t 
of which he kept to graze a cow, &c. still con- 
tinuing in the employ cf Provost Ferguson. 
Upon this little farm was erected a humble 
dwelling, of which William Burnes was the ar- 
chitect. It was, with the exception of a little 
straw, literally a tabernacle of clay. In this 
mean cottage, of which I myself was at times 
an inhabitant, I really believe there dwelt a 
larger portion of content than in any palace in 
Europe. The Cotter's Saturday Night, will 
give some idea of the temper and manners that 
prevailed there. 

In J765, about the middle of March, Mr. 
W. Burnes came to Ayr, and sent to the school 
where I was improving in writing under my 
good friend Mr. Robinson, desiring that I would 
come and speak to him at a certain inn, and 
bring my writing book with me. This was 
immediately complied with. Having examined 
my writing, he was pleased with it — (you will 
readily allow he was not difficult), and told me 
that he had received very satisfactory informa- 
tion of Mr. Tennant, the master of the Eng- 
lish school, concerning my improvement in 
English, and in his method of teaching. In 
the month of May following, I was engaged by 
Mr. Burnes, and four of his neighbours, to teach, 
and accordingly began to teach the httle school 
0' Alloway,. which was situated a few yards 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



S91 



from the argillaceous fabric above mentioned. 
My five employers undertook to board me by 
turns, and to make up a certain salary, at the 
end of the year, provided my quarterly pay- 
ments from the difiFerent pupils did not amount 
to that sum. 

My pupil, Robert Burns, was then between 
BIX and seven years of age ; his preceptor about 
eighteen. Robert and his younger brother Gil- 
bert, had been grounded a little in English be- 
fore they were put under my care. They both 
made a rapid progress in reading, and a tolerable 
progress in writing. In reading, dividing words 
into syllables by rule, spelling without book, 
parsing sentences, &c., Robert and Gilbert were 
generally at the upper end of the Class, even 
when ranged with boys by far their seniors. 
The books most commonly used in the school 
were, the Spelling Book, the Nf^w Testament, 
the Sihle, Masoiis Collection of Prose mid 
Verse, and Fisher's.EngUsh Grammar. They 
committed to memory the hymns, and other 
poems of that collection, with uncommon facili- 
ty. This facility was partly owing to the me- 
thod pursued by their fiither and me in instruct- 
ing them, which was, to make them thoroughly 
acquainted with the meaning of every word in 
each sentence that was to be committed to me- 
mory. By the bye, this may be easier done, and 
at an earlier period, than is generally thought. 
As soon as they were capable of it, I taught them 
to turn verse into its natural prose order ; some- 
times to substitute synonymous expressions for 
poetical words, and to supply all the ellipses. 
These, you know, are the means of knowing that 
the pupil understands his author. These are 
excellent helps to the arrangement of words in 
sentences, as well as to a variety of expression. 

Gilbert always appeared to me to possess a 
more lively imagination, and to be more of the 
wit, than Robert. I attempted to teach them a 
little church music. Here they were left far be- 
hind by all the rest of the school. Robert's ear, 
in particular, was remarkably dull, and his voice 
untunable. It was long before I could get them 
to distinguish one tune from another. Robert's 
countenance was generally grave, and expressive 
of a serious, contemplative, and thoughtful mind. 
Gilbert's face said, Mirth, with thee I mean to 
live ; and certainly, if any person who knew the 
two boys, had been asked which of them was 
the most likely to court the muses, he would 
surely never have guessed that Robert had a 
propensity of that kind. 

In the year 1767, Mr. Eurnes quitted his 
mud edifice, and took possession of a farm 
(Mount Oliphant) of his own improving, while 
in the service of Provost Ferguson. This farm 
being at a considerable distance from the school, 
the boys could not attend regularly ; and some 
changes taking place among the other sup- 
porters of the school, I left it, having continued 
to conduct it for nearly two years and a half. 

In the year 1772, 1 was appointed (being one 
of five candidates who were examined) to teach 



the English school at Ayr ; and la 1 773, Robert 
Burns came to board and lodge with me, for the 
purpose of revising English grammar, &c. that 
he might be better qualified to instruct his bro- 
thers and sisters at home. He was now with 
me day and night, in school, at meids, and in all 
my walks. At the end of one week, I told him, 
that, as he was now ])retty much master of the 
parts of speech, &c., I should like to teach him 
something of French pronunciation, that when 
he should meet with the name of a French town, 
ship, officer, or the hke, in the newspapers, he 
might be able to pronounce/it something like a 
French word. Robert was glad to hear this pro- 
posal, and immediately we attacked the French 
with great courage. 

Now there was little else to be heard but the 
declension of nouns, the conjugation of verbs, 
&c. When walking together, and even at meals, 
I was constantly telling him the names of differ- 
ent objects, as they presented themselves, in 
French ; so that he was hourly laying in a stock 
of words, and sometimes little phrases. In short, 
he took such pleasure in learning, and I in teach- 
ing, that it was difficult to say which of the two 
was most zealous in the business ; and about the 
end of the second week of our study of the 
French, we began to read a little of the Adven- 
tures of Telemachus, in Fenelon's own words. 

But now the plains of IMount Oliphant began 
to whiten, and Robert was summoned to relin- 
quish the pleasing scenes that surrounded the 
grotto of Calypso, and, armed with a sickle, to 
seek glory by signalizing himself in the fields of. 
Ceres — and so he did ; for although but about 
fifteen, I was told that he performed the work 
of a man. 

Thus was I deprived of my very apt pupil, 
and consequently agreeable companion, at the 
end of three weeks, one of which was spent en- 
tirely in the study of English, and the other two 
chiefly in that of French. I did not, however, 
lose sight of him ; but was a frequent visitant 
at his father's house, when I had my half-holi- 
day, and very often went accompanied with one 
or two persons more intelligent than myself, that 
good William Burnes might enjoy a mental feast. 
—Then the labouring oar was shifted to some 
other hand. The father and the son sat down 
with us, when we enjoyed a conversation, where- 
iu solid reasoning, sensible remark, and a mo- 
derate seasoning of jocularity, were so nicely 
blended as to render it palatable to all parties. 
Robert had a hundred questions to ask me about 
the French, &c. ; and the father, who had al- 
ways rational information in view, had still 
some question to propose to my more learned 
friends, upon moral or natural philosophy, or 
some such interesting subject. Mrs. Bumea 
too was of the party as much as possible ; 

" But still the house affairs would draw her thence, 
Which ever as she could with haste dispatch, 
She'd come again, and, with a greedy ear, 
Devour up their discourse." 



292 



BURNS' WORKS. 



- and particularly that of her husband. At all 
times, and in all companies, she listened to him 
with a more marked atten tion than to any body else. 
"When under the necessity of being absent while 
he was speaking, she seemed to regret, as a real 
loss, that she had missed what the good man 
had said. This worthy woman, Agnes Brown, 
had the most thorough esteem for her husband 
of any woman I ever knew. I can by no means 
wonder that she highly esteemed him ; for I 
myself have always considered William Burnes 
iis by far the best of the human race that ever 
had the pleasure of being acquainted with — 
and many a worthy character I have known. 
1 can cheerfully join with Robert in the last line 
of his epitaph (borrowed from Goldsmith), 

" And even his failings lean'd to virtue's side." 

He was an excellent husband, if I may judge 
from his assiduous attention to the ease and 
comfort of his worthy partner, and from her 
affectionate behaviour to him, as well as her 
unwearied attention to the duties of a mother. 

He was a tender and affectionate father ; he 
took pleasure in leading his children in the path 
of virtue ; not in driving them, as some parents 
do, to the performance of duties to whicii they 
themselves are averse. He took care to find 
fault but very seldom ; and therefore, when he 
did rebuke, he was listened to with a kind of 
reverential awe. A look of disapprobation was 
felt ; a reproof was severely so ; and a stripe 
with the taws, even on the skirt of the coat, 
gave heart-felt pain, produced a loud lamenta- 
tion, and brought forth a flood of tears. 

He had the art of gaining the esteem and 
good-will of those that were labourers under 
him. I think I never saw him angry but 
twice . the one time it was with the foreman of 
the band, for not reaping the field as he was de- 
sired ; and the other time, it was with an old 
man, for using smutty inuendoes and double en- 
tendres. Were every foul-mouthed old man to 
receive a seasonable check in this way, it would 
be to the advantage of the rising generation. 
As he was at no time overbearing to inferiors, 
he was equally incapable of that passive, pitiful, 
paltry spirit, that induces some people to keep 
hooing and booing in the presence of a great 
man. He always treated superiors with a be- 
coming respect ; but he never gave the smallest 
encouragement to aristocratical arrogance. But 
I must not pretend to give you a description of 
all the manly qualities, the rational and Chris- 
tian virtues of the venerable William Burnes. 
Time would fail me. I shall only add, that he 
carefully practised every known duty, and avoid- 
ed every thing that was criminal ; or, in the 
apostle's words. Herein did he exercise him- 
self, in living a life void of offence towards 
God and towards men. O for a world of men 
of such dispositions ! We should then have no 
wars. I have often wished, for the good of 
Blank ind^ that it were as customary to honour 



and perpetuate the memory of those who excel 
in moral rectitude, as it is to extol what are 
called heroic actions : then would the mausole- 
um of the friend of my youth overtop and sur- 
pass most of the monuments I see in Westmin- 
ster Abbey. 

Although I cannot do justice to the charac- 
ter of this worthy man, yet you will perceive, 
from these few particulars, what kind of person 
had the principal hand in the education of our 
poet. He spoke the English language with 
more propriety (both with respect to diction 
and pronunciation), than any man I ever knew, 
with no greater advantages. This had a very 
good effect on the boys, who began to talk, and 
reason like men, much sooner than their neigh- 
bours I do not recollect any of their cotempo- 
raries, at my little seminary, who afterwards 
made any great figure as literary characters, ex- 
cept Dr. Tenant, who was chaplain to Colonel 
Fullarton's regiment, and who is now in the 
East Indies. He is a man of genius and learn- 
ing ; )ct affable, and free from pedantry. 

Mr. Burnes, in a short time, found that he 
had overrated Mount Oliphant, and that he 
could not rear his numerous family upon it,— 
After being there some years, he removed to 
Lochlea, in the parish of Tarbolton, where, I 
believe, Robert wrote most of his poems. 

But here. Sir, you will permit me to pause. 
I can tell you but little more relative to our 
poet. I shall, however, iu my next, send you 
a, copy of one of his letters to me, about the 
year 17S3. I received one since, but it is mis- 
laid. Please remember me, in the best man- 
ner, to my worthy friend JMr. Adair, when you 
see him or write to him. 

Hart Street, Bloomsbury Square, 
London, Fob. 22, 1799. 



No. LXVIII. 
FROM PROFESSOR DUGALD STEWART 

TO 

DR. MOORE, 

COh'IAINING HIS SKETCHES OF XHB rOKT. 

The first time I saw Robert Bums was on 
the 23d of October, 1786, when he dined at my 
house in Ayrshire, together with our common 
friend Mr. John Mackenzie, surgeon in Mauch- 
line, to whom I am indebted for the pleasure of 
his acquaintance. I am enabled to mention the 
date particularly, by some verses which Burns 
wrote after he returned home, and in which the 
day of our meeting is recorded. My excellent 
and much lamented friend, the late Basil, Lord 
Daer, happened to arrive at Catrine the same 
day, and by the kindness and frankness of his 
manners, left an impression on the mind of the 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



293 



]>««ti which never was effaced. The verses I 
allude to are among the most imperfect of his 
pieces ; but a few stanzas may perhaps be an 
object of curiosity to you, both on account of 
the character to which they relate, and of the 
light which they throw on the situation and 
feelings of the writer, before his name was 
Icnown to the public* 

I caanot positively say, at this distance of 
time, whether, at the period of our first ac- 
quaintance, the Kilmarnock edition of his poems 
had been just published, or was yet in the press. 
I suspect that the latter was the case, as I have 
Btill in my possession copies in his own hand- 
writing, of some of his favourite performances ; 
particularly of his verses " on turning up a 
Mouse with his plough ;" — " on the Mountain 
Daisy ;" and " the Lament." On my return to 
Edinburgh, I showed the volume, and mention- 
ed what I knew of the author's history, to se- 
veral of my friends, and among others, to Jlr. 
Henry Mackenzie, who first recommended him 
to public notice in the 97th number of The 
Iiounger. 

At this time Burns's prospects in life were so 
extremely gloomy, that he had seriously formed 
a plan of going out to Jamaica in a very humble 
situation, not, however, without lamenting, that 
bis want of patronage should force him to think 
of a project so repugnant to his feelings, when 
his ambition aimed at no higher an object than 
the station of an exciseman or ganger in his own 
country. 

His manners were then, as they continued 
ever afterwards, simple, manly, and indepen- 
dent ; strongly expressive of conscious genius 
and worth ; but without any thing that indica- 
ted forwardness, arrogance, or vanity. He took 
his share in conversation, but not more than 
belonged to him ; and listened with apparent 
attention and deference, on subjects where his 
want of education deprived him of the means of 
information. If there had been a little more of 
gentleness and accommodation in his temper, he 
would, I think, have been still more interest- 
ing ; but he had been accustomed to give law 
in the circle of his ordinary acquaintance ; and 
his dread of any thing approaching to meanness 
or servility, rendered his manner somewhat de- 
cided and hard. Nothing, perhaps, was more 
remarkable among his various attainments, than 
the fluency, and precision, and originality of 
bis language, when he spoke in company ; more 
particularly as he aimed at purity in his turn of 
expression, and avoided more successfully than 
most Scotchmen, the peculiarities of Scottish 
phraseology. 

He came to Edinburgh early in the winter 
following, and remained there for several mouths. 
By whose advice he took this step, I am unable 
to say. Perhaps it was suggested only by his 
own curiosity to see a little more of the world j 
but, I confess, I dreaded the consequences from 

« See Songs, p. 210. { 



the first, and aiways wished that his pursuits 
and habits should continue the same as in tha 
former part of life ; with the addition of, what 
I considered as then completely within his reach, 
a good farm on moderate terms, in a part of the 
country agreeable to his taste. 

The attentions he received during his stay la 
town from all ranks and descriptions of persons, 
were such as would have turned any head but 
his own. I cannot say that I could perceive 
any unfavourable effect which they left on his 
mind. He retained the same simplicity of man- 
ners and appearance which had struck me so 
forcibly when I first saw him in the country ; 
nor did he seem to feel any additional self-im- 
portance from the number and rank of his new 
acquaintance. His dress was perfectly suited to 
his station, plain and unpretending, with a suf- 
ficient attention to neatness. If I recollect right 
he always wore boots ; and, when on more thaa 
usual ceremony, buck-skin breeches. — 

The variety of his engagements, while in 
Edinburgh, prevented me from seeing him so 
often as'I could have wished, In the course of 
the spring he called on me once or twice, at 
my request, early in the morning, and walked 
with me to Braid-Hills, in the neighbourhood 
of the town, when he charmed me still more by 
his private conversation, than he had ever done 
in company. He was passionately fond of the 
beauties of nature ; and I recollect once he told 
me, when I was admiring a distant prospect in 
one of our morning walks, that the sight of so 
many smoking cottages gave a pleasure to his 
mind, which none could understand who had 
not witnessed, like himself, the happiness and 
the worth which they contained. 

In his political principles he was then a>Ja« 
cobite ; which was perhaps owing partly to 
this, that his father was originally from the es- 
tate of Lord IMarcschall. Indeed he did not 
appear to have thought much on such subjects, 
nor very consistently. He had a very strong 
sense of religion, and expressed deep regret at 
the levity with which he had heard it treated 
occasionally in some convivial meetings which 
he frequented. I speak of him as he was in 
the winter of 1 786-7 ; for afterwards we met 
but seldom, and our conversations turned chief- 
ly on his literary projects, or his private affairs. 
I do not recollect whether it appears or not 
from any of your letters to me, that you had 
ever seen Burns. If you have, it is superfluous 
for me add, that the idea which his conversa. 
tion conveyed of the powers of his mind, ex- 
ceeded, if possible, that which is suggested by 
his writings. Among the pnets whom I have 
happened to know, I have been struck, in more 
than one instance, with the unaccountable dis- 
p.irity between their general talents, and the oc- 
casional inspirations of their more favoured mo- 
ments. But .ill the faculties of Burns^'s mind 
Were, as far as I could judge', equally vigorous } 
and his predilection lor poetry was rather the 
result of his own enthusiastic and impassioned 



294 



BURNS' WORKS. 



temper, than of a genius exclusively adapted to 
that species of composition. From his conver- 
sation I should have pronounced him to be fit- 
ted to excel in whatever walk of ambition he 
had chosen to exert his abilities. 

Among the subjects on which he was accus- 
tomed to dwell, the characters of the individu- 
als with whom he happened to meet, was plain- 
ly a favourite one. The remarks he made on 
them were always shrewd and pointed, though 
frequently inclining too much to sarcasm. His 
praise of those he loved was sometimes indiscri- 
minate and extravagant ; but this, I suspect, 
proceeded rather from the caprice and humour 
of the moment, than from the eflfects of attach- 
ment in blinding his judgment. His wit was 
ready, and always imptessed with the marks of 
a vigorous understanding ; but, to my taste, 
not often pleasing or happy. His attempts at 
epigram, in his printed works, are the only per- 
formances, perhaps, that he has produced, to- 
tally unworthy of his genius. 

In summer, 1787, I passed some weeks in 
Ayrshire, and saw Burns occasionally. I think 
that he made a pretty long excursion that sea- 
son to the Highlands, and that he also visited 
what Beattie calls the Arcadian ground of Scot- 
land, upon the banks of the Teviot and the 
Tweed. 

I should have mentioned before, that not- 
withstanding various reports I heard during the 
preceding winter, of Burns's predilection for 
convivial, and not very select society, I should 
have concluded in favour of his habits of so- 
briety, from all of him that ever fell under my 
own observation. He told me indeed himself, 
that the weakness of his stomach was such as 
to deprive him entirely of any merit in his tem- 
perance. I was however somewhat alarmed 
about the effect of his now comparatively seden- 
tary and luxurious life, when he confessed to 
me, the first night he spent in my house after 
hii winter's campaign in town, that he had been 
much disturbed when in bed, by a palpitation 
at his heart, which, he said, was a complaint 
to which he had of late become subject. 

In the course of the same season, I was led 
by curiosity to attend for an hour or two a Ma- 
son-Lodge in Mauchline, where Burns presided. 
He had occasion to make some short unpre- 
meditated compliments to different individuals 
from whom he had no reason to expect a visit, 
and every thing he said was happily conceived, 
and forcibly as well as fluently expressed. If 
I am not mistaken, he told me, that in that 
village, before going to Edinburgh, he had be- 
longed to a small club of such of .the inhabi- 
tants as had a taste for books, when they used 
to converse and debate on any interesting ques- 
tions that occurred to them in the course of 
their reading. His manner of speaking in pub- 
lic had evidently the marks of some practice in 
extempore elocution. 

1 must not omit to mention, what I have al- 
ways considered as characteristical in a high 



degree of true genius, the extreme facility and 
good nature of his taste, in judging of the com- 
positions of otheis, where there was any real 
ground for praise. I repeated to him many 
passages of English poetry with which he was 
unacquainted, and have more than once wit- 
nessed the tears of admiration and rapture with 
which he heard them. The collection of songs 
by Dr. Aiken, which I first put into his hands, 
he read with unmixed delight, notwithstanding 
his former efforts in that very difficult species 
of writing ; and I have little doubt that it had 
some effect in polishing his subsequent compo- 
sitions. 

In judging of prose, I do not think his taste 
was equally sound. I once read to him a pas- 
sage or two in Franklin's Works, which I 
thought very happily executed, upon the model 
of Addison ; but he did not appear to relish, or 
to perceive the beauty which they derived from 
their exquisite simplicity, and spoke of them 
with indifference, when conlpared with the 
point, and antithesis, and quaintness of Junius. 
The influence of this taste is very perceptible 
in his own prose compositions, although their 
great and various excellencies render some of 
them scarcely less objects of wonder than his 
poetical performances. The late Dr. Robertson 
used to say, that, considering his education, the 
former seemed to him the more extraordinary of 
the two. 

His memory was uncommonly retentive, at 
least for poetry, of which he recited to me fre- 
quently long compositions with the most mi- 
nute accuracy. They were chiefly ballads, and 
other pieces in our Scottish dialect ; great part 
of them (he told me) he had learned in his 
childhood, from h*s mother, who delighted in 
such recitations, and whose poetical taste, rude 
as it probably was, gave, it is presumable, the 
first direction to her son's genius. 

Of the more poUshed verses which acciden- 
tally fell into his hands in his early years, he 
mentioned particularly the recommendatory 
poems, by different authors, prefixed to Jlervey'a 
Meditations ; a book which has always had a 
very wide circulation among such of the coun- 
try people of Scotland, as affect to unite some 
degree of taste with their religious studies. And 
these poems (although they are certainly below 
mediocrity) he continued to read with a degree 
of rapture beyond expression. He took notice 
of this fact himself, as a proof how much the 
taste is liable to be influenced by accidental cir- 
cumstances. 

Ilis father appeared to me, from the account 
he gave of him, to have been a respectable and 
worthy character, possessed of a mind superior 
to what might have been expected from his 
station in life. He ascribed nruich of his own 
principles and feelings to the early impressions 
he had received from his instructions and exam- 
ple. I recollect that he once applied to him 
(and he added, that the passage was a literal 
statement of fact,) the two last lines of the fol. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



295 



lowing passage in tlie Winstrel ; the whole of 
■which he repeated with great euthusiasm : 

" Shall I be left forgotten in the dust, 

When fate, relenting, lets the flower revive ; 
Shall nature's voice, to man alone unjust, 

Bid him, though doom'd to perish, hope to 
live ?" 
Is it for this fair Virtue oft must strive 

With (lisappointmeut, penury, and pain ? 
No ! Heaven's immortal spring shall yet arrive ; 

And man's majestic beauty bloom again, 
Bright through th' eternal year of love's trium- 
phant reign. 

Tfiis truth sublime, Ms simple sire had tau(/JU : 
In sooth, 'twas almost all the shepherd knew. 

With respect to Burns's early education, I 
cannot say any thing with certainty. Ke al- 
ways spoke with respect and gratitude of the 
school-master who had taught him to read Eng- 
lish ; and who, finding in his scholar a more 
than ordinary ardour for knowledge, had bi-cn 
at pains to instruct him in the grainniaticai 
principles of the language. Ke began the study 
of Latin, but dropped it before he had finished 
the verbs. I have sometimes heard him quote 
a few Latin words, such as omnia vincit amor, 
&c., but they seemed to be such as he had 
caught from conversation, and which he re- 
peated by rote. I think he had a project, after 
he came to Edinburgh, of prosecuting the study 
under his intimate friend, the late Mr. Nicoll, 
one of the masters of the grammar-school here ; 
but I do not know that he ever proceeded so 
far as to make the attempt. 

He certainly possessed a smattering of French; 
and, if he had aa affectation in any thing, 
it was in introducing occasionally a word or 
phrase from that language. It is possible that 
his knowledge in this respect might be more 
extensive than I sujipose it to be ; but this you 
can learn from his more intimate acquaintance. 
It would be worth while to inquire, whether 
he was able to read the French authors with 
such facility as to receive from them any im- 
provement to his taste. For my own part, I 
doubt it much — nor would I believe it, but on 
very strong and pointed evidence. 

If my memory does not fail me, he was well 
instructed in arithmetic, and knew something 
of practical geometry, particularly of surveying. 
— All his other attainments were entirely his 
own. 

The last time I saw him was during the win- 
ter, 17S8-89 ; wheu he passed an evening with 
me at Diumslieugh, iu the neiglibourlioud of 
Edini)ur^h, where I was then living. My friend 
JVIr. Alison was the only other person in com- 
p.my. I never saw liim more agreeable or in- 
teresting. A present which iMr. Alison sent 
him afterwards of his Essays on 7'uste, drew 
from Burns a letter of ai kiiowledgment, « hich j 
J remember to have read with some decree of] 



surprise at the distinct conception he appeared 
from it to have formed, of the general piinci- 
pies of the doctrine of association. When I 
saw Mr. Alison in Shropshire last autumn, I 
forgot to inquire if the letter be still in exist- 
ence. If it is, you may easily procure it, by 
means of our friend Mr. Houlbrooke. 



No. LXIX. 
FROM GILBERT BURNS 

TO 

DR. CURRIE, 

GlVlSa THE HISTORY OF THE OBIQIK 0» IBS 
PRINCIPAI. POEMS. 

It may gratify curiosity to know some particu- 
kirs of the history of the preceding Poems, 
on which the celebrity of our Bard has been 
hitherto founded ; and with this view the 
foUov.iug extract is made from a letter of 
Gilbert Burns, the brother of our Poet, and 
his friend and confidant firom his earliest 
years. 

DEAR SIR, Mnssgiel, 2d April, 1798. 

Your letter of the Hth of Jlarch I received 
in due course, but, from the hurry of the sea- 
son, have been hitherto hindered from answer- 
ing it. I will now try to give you what satis- 
faction I can in regard to the particulars you 
mention. I cannot pretend to be very accurate 
in respect to the dates of the poems, but none 
of them, except Winter, a Dirge, (which was 
a juvenile production), the Death and Dying 
Words of poor Mailie, and some of the songs, 
were composed before the year 1784. The cir- 
cumstances of the poor sheep were pretty much 
as he has described them. He had, partly by 
way of frolic, bought a fewe and two lambs from ■ 
a neighbour, and she was tethered in a field ad- 
joining the house at Lochlie. He and I were 
going out with our teams, and our two younger 
i)rother3 to drive for us, at mid-day, when 
Hugh Wilson, a curious looking awkward boy, 
clad in plaid ing, came to us with much anxiety 
in his face, with the information that the. ewe 
had entangled herself in the tether, and was ly- 
ing in the ditch. Robert was much tickled 
with Hu(jhoc's appearance and postures on the 
o^(Msion. Pocr IMailie was set to rights, and 
when we returned from the plough in the even- 
ing, he repeated to me her Death and Dying 
Wards pietty much in the way they now stand. 

Among the earliest of his poems was the 
Ejjistle to Duvtc. Robert often composed with- 
out any regular plan. When any thing made a 
strong impie^ion on his mind, so as to rouse it 



296 



BURN3' WORKS. 



to poetic exertion, he would give way to the 
impulse, and embody the thought in rhyme. 
If he hit on two or three stanzas to please him, 
he would then think of jiroper introductory, 
connecting, and concluding stanzas ; hence the 
middle of a poem was often fii^st produced. It 
was, I think, in summer 1784, when in the 
interval of harder laboui-, he and I were weed- 
ing in the garden (kailyard) that he repeated to 
me the principal part of this epistle. I beiieve 
the first idea of Robert's becoming an author 
was started on this occasion. I was much 
pleased with the epistle, and said to him 1 was 
of opinion it would bear being printed, and 
that it would be well received by people of 
taste ; that I thought it at least equal, if not 
superior, to many of Alkn Ramsay's epistles, 
and that the merit of these, and much other 
Scotch poetry, seemed to consist principally in 
the knack of the expression — but here, there 
was a strain of interesting sentiment, and the 
Scotticism of the language scarcely seemed af- 
fected, but appeared to be the natural language 
of the poet ; that, besides, there was certainly 
some novelty in a poet pointing out the conso- 
lations that were in store for him when he 
should go a-begging. Robert seemed very well 
pleased with my criticism ; and we talked of 
sending it to some magazine, but cs this plan 
afforded no opportunity of knowing how it 
would take, the idea was dropped. 

It was, I think, in the winter following, as 
we were going together with carts for coat to 
the family fire (and I could yet point out the 
particular spot), that the author first repeated 
to me the Address to the Deil. The curious 
idea of such an address was suggested to him, 
by running over in his mind the many ludicrous 
accounts and representations we have, from va- 
rious quarters, of this august personage. Death 
and Dr. Hornbook, though not published in 
the Kilmarnock edition, was produced early in 
the year 1785. The schoolmaster of Tarbolton 
parish, to eke up the scanty subsistence allowed 
to that useful class of men, had set up a shop 
■ of grocery goods. Having accidentally fallen in 
with some medical books, and become most 
hobby-horsically attached to the study of medi- 
cine, he had added the sale of a few medicines 
to his little trade. He had got a shop-bill 
printed, at the bottom of which, overlooking 
his own incapacity, he had advertised, that 
" Advice would be given in common disorders 
at the shop, gratis." Robert was at a mason- 
meeting, in Tarbolton, when the " Dominie" 
unfortunately made too ostentatious a display of 
his medical skill. As he parted in the evening 
from this mixture of pedantry and physic, at 
the place where he describes his meeting with 
Death, one of those floating ideas of apparition, 
he mentions in-his letter to Dr. Moore, crossed 
his mind ; this set him to work for the rest of 
the way home. These circumstances he relat- 
ed when he repeated the verses to me next af- 
ttraoon, as I was holding the plough, and he 



was letting the water off the field beside me 
The Epistle to John Lapraik was produced 
exactly on the occasion described by the author. 
He says in that poem. On fasten e'en he had a 
rockin. I believe he has omitted the word 
rocking in the glossary. It is a term derived 
from those primitive times, when the country- 
women employed their spare hours in spinning 
on the rock, or distaff. This simple instrument 
is a very portable one, and well fitted to the so- 
cial inclination of meeting in a neighbour's 
house ; hence the phrase of going a-rocking or 
with the rock. As the connection the phrase 
had with the implement was forgotten when 
the rock gave way to the spinning-wheel, the 
phrase came to be used by both sexes on social 
occasions, and men talk of going with their 
rocks as well as women. 

It was at one of these rockings at our house, 
when we had twelve or fifteen young people with 
their rocks, that Lapraik's song, beginning— 
" When I upon thy bosom lean," was sung, 
and we ars informed who was the author. 
Upon this Robert wrote his first epistle to Lap- 
raik ; and his second in rejily to his answer. 
The verses to the Moitse and Mountain- Daisy 
were composed ou the occasions mentioned, and 
while the author was holding the plough ; I 
could point out the particular spot where each 
was composed. Holding the plough was a fa- 
vourite situation with Robert for poetic compo- 
sitions, and some of his best verses were pro- 
duced while he was at that exercise. Several 
of the poems were produced for the purpose of 
bringing forward some favourite sentiment of the 
author. He used to remark to me, that he 
could not well conceive a more mortifying pic- 
ture of human life than a man seeking work. 
In casting about in his mind how this sentiment 
might be brought forward, the elegy Man was 
made to Mourn, was composed. Robert had 
frequently remarked to me, that he thought 
theie was something peculiarly venerable in the 
phrase, " Let us worship God," used by a de- 
cent sober head of a family introducing family 
worship. To this sentiment of the author the 
world is indebted for the Cotter's Saturday 
Night. The hint of the plan, and the title of 
the poem, were taken from Fergusson's Farmer's 
Ingle. When Robert had not some pleasure in 
view in which I was not thought lit to partici- 
pate, we used frequently to walk together when 
the weather was favourable, on the Sunday af- 
ternoons, (those precious breathing -times to the 
labouring part of the community), and enjoyed 
such Sundays as would make one regret to see 
their number abridged. It was in one of these 
walks that I first had the pleasure of hearing 
the author repeat the Cotter's Saturday Night. 
I do not recollect' to have read or heard any 
thing by which I was more highly electrified. 
The fifth and sixth stanzas, and the eighteenth, 
thrilled with peculiar ecstasy through my soul. 
I mention this to you, that you may see what 
J hit the taste of unlettered criticism. 1 should 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



297 



bo glad to know, if the enlightened mind and 
refined taste of Mr. Roscoe, who has borne such 
honourable testimony to this poem, agrees with 
me m the selection. Fergusson, iu his Hallow 
laiT of Edinburgh, I believe, likqwise furnish- 
ed a hint of the title and plan of the Hohj Fair. 
The farcical scene the poet there describes 
was often a favoutit'C field of his observation, 
and the most of the incidents he mentions 
had actually passed before his eyes. It is scarce- 
ly necessary to mention, that the Lament was 
composed on that unfortunate passage iu his ma- 
trimonial history, which I have mentioned in 
my letter to Mrs. Duulop, after the first distrac- 
tion of his feelings had a little subsided. The 
Tale of Tica Dogs was composed after the re- 
solution of publishing was nearly taken. Robert 
had had a dog, which he called Luath, that was 
a great favourite. The dog had been killed by 
the wanton cruelty of some person the night be- 
fore my father's death. Robert said to me, that 
he should like to confer such immortality as he 
could bestow upon his old friend Luath, and 
that he had a great mind to introduce something 
into the book under the title of Stanzas to the 
Memory of a quadruped Friend ; bu't this plan 
was given up for the Tale as it now stands. 
CtBsar was merely the creature of the poet's 
imagination, created for the purpose of holding 
chat with his favourite Z,uath. The first time 
Robert heard the spinnet played upon, was at the 
hou^e of Dr. Lawrie, then minisier of the parish 
of Loudon, now in Glasgow, having civcn up 
the parish in favour of his son. Dr. Lawrie 
has several daughters ; one of them played j the 
father and mother led down the dance ; the rest 
of the sisters, the brother, the poet, and tlio 
other guest, mixed in it. It was a d(.'!I.;htful 
family scene for our poet, then lately introiliicod 
to the world. His mind was roused to a poetic 
enthusiasm, and the stanzas, p. 36, were left in 
the room where he slept. It was to Dr. Law- 
rie that Dr. Blacklock's letter was addressed, 
which my brother, iu his letter to Dr. i\Ioore, 
mentions as the reason of his going to Edinburgh. 
When my iixthtr feucd his little property near 
Alloway Kirk, the wall of the thurch-yard had 
gone to ruin, and cattle had free liberty of pas- 
turing in it. My father, with two or three other 
neighbours, joined in an application to the to^'n 
council of Ayr, who were superiors of the ad- 
joining land, for liberty to rebuild it, and raised 
by subscription a sum for enclosing this ancient 
cemetery with a wall ; hence he came to con- 
sider it as his burial-place, and we learned that 
reverence fur it, people generally have for the 
burial-place of their ancestors. i\Iy I)rotlier was 
living iu EUisland, when Captain Grose, on his 
peregrinations through Scotland, s.aid ionie time 
at Carsc-house, in the neighbourhood, with 
Captain Robert Riddel, of Glen-Riddell, a parti- 
cular friend of my brother's. The Antiquarian 
and the Poet were " Unco pack and thick the- 
jitber. " Robert requested of Captain Grose, 
whea he should come to Ayrshire, chat he would 



make a drawing of Alloway Kirk, as it was the 
burial-place of his father, and where he himself 
had a sort of claim to lay down his bones when 
they should be no longer serviceable to him ; 
and added, by way of encouragement, that it 
was the scene of many a good story of witches 
and apparitions, of which he knew the Captain 
was very fond. The Captain agreed to the re- 
quest, provided the Poet w'^uld furnish a witch- 
story, to be printed along with it. Tarn o' 
Shantcr was produced on this occasion, and was 
first published in Grose's Antiquities of Scot- 
land. 

This poem is founded on a traditional story. 
The leading. circumstances of a man riding home 
very late from Ayr, in a stormy night, his seeing 
alight in Alloway Kirk, his having the curiosity 
to look in, his seeing a dance of witches, with 
the devil playing on the bag-pipe to them, the 
scanty covering of one of the witches, which 
made him so far forget himself as to cry — " Weel 
loupen, vphort sark !" — with the melancholy ca- 
tastrophe of the piece ; is all a true story, that 
can be well attested by many respectable old 
people in that neighbourhood. 

I do not at present recollect any circumstances 
respectig the other poems, that could be at all 
interesting ; even some of those I have mention- 
ed, I am ;ifraid, may appear trifling enough, but 
you will only make use of what appears to you 
of consequence. 

The following Poems in the first Edinburgh 
edition, were not in that published in Kilmar- 
nock, Death and Dr. Hornbook ; The Brigs 
of Ayr ; The Calf; (the poet had been with 
?ilr. Gavin Hamilton in the morning, who said 
jocularly to him when he was going to church, 
in allusion to the injunction of some parents to 
their children, that he must lie sure to bring 
him a note of the sermon at mid-day ; this ad- 
dress to the Reverend Gentleman on his text 
was accordingly produced). The Ordination; 
The Address to the Unco Guid ; Tarn Sam- 
sou\ lileyy ; A. Winter Night ; Stanzas on 
the same occasion us the preceding prayer ; 
Verses left at a lieverend Friend's house ; The 
firsl Psalm; Prayer under the pressure of vio- 
lent anguish ; The first six verses of the nine- 
teenth Fsalm ; Verses to JUiss Logan, with 
JBcatlie's Poems ; To a Haggis ; Address to 
Edinburgh; John JBarleycorn ; When Guil- 
ford Guid ; Behind yon hills where Stinchar 
Jluws ; Green grow the Hashes ; Again re- 
joicing Nature sees ; The gloomy Night ; No 
Churchman am I, 



No. LXX. 
FRO.AI GILBERT BURNS 

TO 

DR. CURRTE. 
Dinning, Dumfriesshire, 2ith Oct. 1800. 

DEAR SIR, 

Youus of the ITth iustaat came to my hand 



298 



BURNS' WORKS. 



yesterday, and I sit down this afternoon to write 
you in return ; but when I shall be able to 
finish all I wish to say to you, I cannot tell. I 
am sorry your conviction is not complete I'e- 
specting feck. There is no doubt that if you 
take two English words which appear synony- 
mous to monij feck, and judge by the rules of 
English construction, it will appear a barbarism. 
I believe if you take this mode of translating 
from any language, the effect will frequently be 
the same. But if you take the expression mony 
feck to have, as I have stated it, the same mean- 
ing with the English expression very many, 
(and such license every translator must be al- 
lowed, especially when he translates from a 
simple dialect which has never been subjected 
to rule, and where the precise meaning of words 
is of consequence not minutely attended to), it 
will be well enough. One thing I am certain 
of, that ours is the seuse universally understood 
in this couutry ; and I believe no Scotsman who 
has lived contented at home, pleased with the 
simple manners, the simple melodies, and the 
simple dialect of his native country, unvitiated 
by foreign intercourse, " whose soul proud 
science never taught to stray," ever discovered 
barbarism in the song of Etrick Banks. 

The story you have lieard of the gable of my 
father's house falling down, is simply as fol- 
lows ; — When my father built his "»jlay big- 
gin," he put in two stone-jambs, i,-^ they are 
called, and a lintel, carrying up a chimney in 
his clay-gable. The consequence was, that as 
the gable subsided, the jambs, remaining firm, 
threw it off its centre ; and, one very stormy 
morning, when my brother was nine or ten 
days old, a little before day-liglit, a part of the 
gable fell out, and the rest appeared so shatter- 
ed, that my mother, with the young poet, had 
to be carried through the storm to a neighbmn-'s 
house, where they remained a week till their 
own dwelling was adjusted. That you may not 
think too meanly of this house, or of my fa- 
t" ts taste in building, by supi>j)siug the poet's 
Uescription in the Vision (which is entirely a 
fancy picture) applicable to it, allow me to tjke 
notice to you, that the house consisted of a 
kitchen in one end, and a room in the other, 
with a fire-place and chimney ; that my father 
Lad constructed a concealed bed in the kitchen, 
with a small closet at the end, of the same ma- 
terials with the house, and, when altogether cast 
over, outside and in, with lime, it had a neat, 
comfortable appearance, such as no family of the 
same rank, in the present improved style of 
living, would think themselves iil-loflged in. I 
wish likewise to take notice in passing, that al- 
though the " Cotter," in the Saturday Night, 
is an exact copy of my father in his manners, 
his family devotion, and e.xhortaions, yet the 
other parts of the description do not apply to 
our family. None of us were ever " at service 
out amang the neebors roun." Instead of our 
depositing our " sair won penny-fee" with our 
pareatB, my father laboured hard, and lived with 



the most rigid economy, that he might he able 
to keep his children at home, thereby having aa 
opportunity of watching the progress of our 
young minds, and forming in them early habits 
of piety and virtue ; and from this motive alone 
did he engage in farming, the source of all his 
difficulties and distresses. 

When I threatened you in my last with a 
long letter on the subject of the books I recom- 
mended to the Mauchline club, and the effects 
of refinement of taste on the labouring classes 
of men, I meant merely that I wished to write 
you on that subject, with the view that, in some 
future cammunication to the public, you might 
take up the subject more at large, that, by means 
of your happy manner of writing, the attention 
of people of power and influence might be fixed 
on it. I had little expectation, however, that 
I shoidd overcome my indolence, and the di£B- 
culty of arranging my thoughts so far as to put 
my thrt.it ia execution, till some time ago, be- 
fore I had finished my harvest, having a call 
from Sir. Ewart, with a message from you, 
pressing me to the performance of this task, I 
thought myself no longer at liberty to decline 
it, and resolved to set about it with my first 
leisure. I will now therefore endeavour to lay 
before you what has occurred to my mind on a 
subject where people capable cf observation, and 
of placing their remarks in a proper point of 
view, have seldom aa opportunity of making 
their remarks on real life. In doing this I may 
perhaps b« led sometimes to write more in the 
manner of a person communicating information 
to )'ou which you did not know before, and at 
other times more in the style of egotism than I 
would choose to do to any person in whose can- 
dour, and even personal good-will, I had less 
confidence. 

There are two several lines of study that open 
to everv man as he enters life : the one, the ge- 
neral science of life, of duty, and of happiness ; 
the other, the particular arts of his employment 
or situation in society, and the several branches 
of knowledge therewith connected. This last is 
certainly indispensable, as nothing can be more 
(Ii>gr:icefnl than ignorance in the way of one's 
own ])rofession ; and whatever a man's specula- 
tive knowledge may be, if he is ill informed 
there, he can neither be a useful nor a respect- 
able member of society. It is nevertheless true, 
that " the proper study of mankind is man ;" 
to consider what duties are encumbent on him 
as a rational creature, and a member of society ; 
how he may increase or secure his happiness; 
and how he may prevent or soften the many 
miseries incident to human life. 1 think the 
pursuit of hap|)iness is too frequently confined 
to the emleavour after the acquisition of wealth. 
I do not wish to be considered as an idle de- 
claimer against riches, which, after all that can 
be said against them, will still be considered by 
men of common sense as objects of importance ; 
and poverty will be felt as a sore evil, after all 
the fine things that can be said of its advan 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



299 



tages ; on the contrary I am of opinion, that a 
great proportion of the miseries of life arise from 
the want of economy, and a prudent attention 
to money, or the ill-directed or intemperate pur- 
suit of it. But however valuable riches may be 
as the means of comfort, independence, an<l the 
pleasure of doing good to others, yet I am of 
opinion, that they may be, and frequently are, 
purchased at too great a cost, and that sacrifices 
are made in the pursuit which the actiuisition 
cannot compensate. I remember hearing my 
worthy teacher, IVIr. Murdoch, relate an anec- 
dote to my father, which I think sets this mat- 
ter in a strong light, and perhaps was the ori- 
gin, or at least tended to promote this way of 
thinking in me. When Mr. Murdoch left At- 
loway, he went to teach and reside in the family 
of an opulent farmer who had a number of sous. 
A neighbour coming on a visit, in the course of 
conversation asked the father how he meant to 
dispose of his sons. The father replied, that he 
had not determined. The visitor said, that were 
he in his place he would give theni all good 
education and send them abroad, without (per- 
haps) having a precise idea where. The father 
objected, that many young men lost their health 
in foreign countries, and many their lives. True, 
replied the visitor, but as you have a number of 
Bons, it will be strange if some one of them does 
not live and make a fortune. 

Let any person who has the feelings of a fa- 
ther comment on this story : but though few 
will avow, even to themselves, that such views 
govern their conduct, yet do we not daily see 
people shipping oflf their sons, (and who would 
do so by their daughters also, if there were any 
demand for them), that they may be rich or 
perish ? 

The education of the lower classes is seldom 
considered in any other point of view than as 
the means of raising them from that station to 
which they were born, and of making a fortune. 
I am ignorant of the mysteries of the art of ac- 
quiring a fortune without any thing to begin with, 
and cannot calculate, with any degree of exact- 
ness, the difficulties to be surmounted, the mor- 
tifications to be suffered, and the degradation 
of character to be submitted to, in lending one's 
self to be the minister of other people's vices, or 
in the practice of rapine, fraud, oppression, or 
dissimulation, in the progress ; but even when 
the wished for end is attained, it may be ques- 
tioned whether happiness be much increased by 
the change. When 1 have seen a fortunate ad- 
venturer of the lower ranks of life returned from 
the East or West Indies with all the hauteur of 
a vulgar mind accustomed to be served by slaves, i 
assuming a character, which, from the early ha- ; 
bits of life, he is ill fitted to support, displaying ' 
magnificence wliich raises the envy of some, and ■ 
the contempt of others ; claiming an equiility 
with tlie great, which they are unwilling to al- 
low ; inly pining at the precedence of the here- 
ditary gentry ; maddened by the polished inso- 
lence of some of the unworthy part of them ; , 



seeking pleasure in the society of men who caa 
condescend to flatter him, and listen to his ab- 
surdity for the sake of a good dinner and good 
wine ; I cannot avoid concluding, that his bro- 
ther, or companion, who, by a diligent applica- 
tion to the labouis of agriculture, or some use- 
ful mechanic employment, and the careful hus- 
banding of his gains, has acquired a competence 
in his station, is a much happier, and, in the 
eye of a person who can take an enlarged view 
of mankind, a much more respectable man. 

But the votaries of wealth may be considered 
as a groat ilumber of candidates striving for a 
few prizes, and whatever addition the successful 
may make to their pleasure or happiness, the 
disappointed will always have more to suffer, I 
am afraid, than those who abide contented in 
the station to which they were born. I wish, 
therefore, the education of the lower classes to 
be promoted and directed to their improvement 
as men, as tiie means of increasing their virtue, 
and opening to them new and dignified sources 
of pleasure and happiness. I have heard some 
people object to the education of the lower clas- 
ses of men, as rendering them less useful, by 
abstracting them from their proper business ; 
others, as tending to make them saucy to their 
superiors, impatient of their condition, and tur- 
bulent subjects ; while you, with more huraa> 
nity, have your fears alarmed, lest the delicacy 
of mind, induced by tliat sort of education and 
reading I recommend, should render the evils 
of their situation in^upportable to them. I wish 
to examine the validity of each of these objec- 
tions, beginning with the one you have men- 
tioned. 

I do not mean to controvert your criticism of 
my favourite books, the Mirror and Lounger, 
although I understand there are people who 
think themselves judges, who do not agree with 
you. The acquisition of knowledge, except 
what is connected with human life and con- 
duct, or the particular business of his employ- 
ment, does not appear to me to be the fittest 
pursuit for a peasant. 1 would say with the 
poet, 

" How empty learning, and how vain is art, 
Save where it guides the life, or mends the 
heart !" 

There seems to be a considerable latitude in 
the use of the word taste. I understand it to 
be the perception and relish of beauty, order, 
or any other thing, the contemplation of which 
gives pleasure and delight to tiie mind. I sup- 
pose it is in this senso you wish it to be under- 
stood. If I a;n right, the taste which these 
books are calculated to cultivate, (beside the 
taste for fine writing, w hich many of the papers 
tend to improve aud to gratify), is what is pro- 
per, consistent, aud becoming in human cha- 
racter and conduct, us almost every paper relates 
to these subjects. 

1 am sorry I have not these books by mO) 



800 



BURNS' WORKS. 



that I miglit point oat some instances. I re- 
member two ; one, the beautiful story of La 
Roche, where, beside the pleasure one derives 
from a beautiful simple story told in M'Kenzie's 
happiest manner, the mind is led to taste, with 
heartfelt rapture, the consolation to be derived 
in deep affliction, from habitual devotion and 
trust in Almighty God. Tlie other, the story 

of General W , where the reader is led to 

have a high relish for that firmness of mind 
which disregards appearances, the common forms 
and vanities of life, for the sake of doing justice 
in a case which was out of the reach of human 
laws. 

Allow me then to remark, that if the mora- 
lity of these books is subordinate to the cultiva- 
tion of taste ; that taste, that refinement of 
mind and delicacy of sentiment which they are 
intended to give, are the strongest guard and 
surest foundation of morality and virtue. Other 
moralists guard, as it were, the overt act ; these 
papers, by exalting duty into sentiment, are cal- 
culated to make every deviation from i-ectltude 
and propriety of conduct, painful to the mind, 

" Whose temper'd powers. 
Refine at length, and every passion wears 
A chaster, milder, more attractive mien." 

I readily grant you that the refinement of 
mind which I contend for, increases our sensi- 
bility to the evils of life ; but what station of 
life is without its evils ! There seems to be no 
such thing as perfect happiness in this world, 
and we must balance the pleasure and the pain 
which we derive from taste, before we can pro- 
perly appreciate it in the case before us. I ap- 
prehend that on a minute examination it will 
appear, that the evils peculiar to the lower ranks 
of life, derive their power to wound us, more 
from the suggestions of false pride, and the 
" contagion of luxury weak and vile," than the 
refinement of our taste. It was a favourite re- 
mark of my brother's, that there was no part 
of the constitution of our nature, to which we 
were more indebted, than that by which " cus- 
tom makes things familiar and easy," (a copy 
Mr. Murdoch used to set us to write), and there 
is little labour which custom will not make easy 
to a man in health, if he is not ashamed of his 
employment, or does not begin to compare his 
situation with those he may see going about at 
their ease. 

But the man of enlarged mind feels the re- 
spect due to him as a man ; he has learned that 
no employment is dishonourable in itself; that 
while he performs aright the duties of that sta- 
tion in which God has placed him, he is as 
great as a king in the eyes of Him whom he is 
principally desirous to please ; for the man of 
taste, who is constantly obliged to labour, must 
of necessity be religious. If you teach him only 
to reason, you may make him an atheist, a dema- 
gogue, or any vile thing ; but if you teach him 
to feel, his feelings can only find their proper 



and natural relief in devotion and religiona n* 
signation. He knows that those people who ar« 
to appearance at ease, are not without their 
share of evils, and that even toil itself is not 
destitute of advantages. He listens to the words 
of his favourite poet : 

" O mortal man, that livest here by toil, 

Cease to repine and grudge thy hard estate ; 
That like an emmet thou must ever moil, 

Is a sad sentence of an ancient date ; 
And, certes, there is for it reason great ; 

Although sometimes it makes thee weep and 
wail. 
And curse thy stars, and early drudge and late ; 

Withouten that would come a heavier bale, 
Loose life, unruly passions, and diseases pale !" 

And, while he repeats the words, the grateful 
recollection comes across his mind, how often he 
has derived ineffable pleasure from the sweet 
song of " Nature's darling child." I can say, 
from my own experience, that there is no sort 
of farm labour inconsistent with the most re- 
fined and pleasurable state of the mind that I 
am acquainted with, thrashing alone excepted. 
That, icdeed, I have always considered as in- 
supportable drudgery, and think the ingenious 
mechanic who invented the thrashing machine, 
ought to have a statue among the benefactors of 
his country, and should be placed in the niche 
next to the person who introduced the culture 
of potatoes into this island. 

Perhaps the thing of most importance in the 
education of the common people is, to prevent 
the intrusion of artificial wants. I bliss the 
memory of my worthy father for almost every 
thing in the dispositions of my mind, and my 
habits of life which I can approve of; and for 
none more than the pains he took to impress my 
mind with the sentiment, that nothing was more 
unworthy the character of a man, than that his 
happiness should in the least depend on what he 
should eat or drink. So early did he impress 
my mind with this, that although I was as fond 
of sweetmeats as children generally are, yet I sel- 
dom laid out any of the half-pence which rela- 
tions or neighbours gave me at fairs, in the pur- 
chase of them ; and if I did, every mouthful I 
swallowed was accompanied with shame and re- 
morse ; and to this hour I never indulge iu the 
use of any delicacy, but I feel a considerable de- 
gree of self-reproach and alarm for the degrada- 
tion of the human character. Such a habit of 
thinking I consider as of great consequence, 
both to the virtue and happiness of men in the 
lower ranks of life. And thus, Sir, I am of 
opinion, that if their minds are early and deeply 
imprest with a sense of the dignity of man, as 
such ; with the love of independence and of in- 
dustry, economy and temperance, as the most 
obvious means of making themselves indepen- 
dent, and the virtues most becoming their situ- 
ation, and necessary to their happiness ; men ia 
the lower ranks of life may partake of the plea' 



CORRESPONDEI^CE. 



501 



BUres to be derived from tte perusal of books 
calculated to improve the mind and refine the 
taste, without any danger of becoming more un- 
happy in their situation, or discontented with it. 
Nor do I think there is any danger of their be- 
coming less useful. There are some hours every 
day that the most constant labourer is neither 
at work nor asleep. These hours are either ap- 
propriated to amusement or to sloth. If a taste 
for employing these hours in reading were cul- 
tivated, I do not suppose that the return to la- 
bour would be more difficult. Every one will 
allow, that the attachment to idle amusements, 
or even to sloth, has as powerful a tendency to 
abstract men from their ])roper business, as the 
attachment to books ; while the one dissipates 
the mind, and the other tends to increase its 
powers of self-government. To those who are 
afraid that the improvement of the minds of the 
common people might be dangerous to the state, 
or the established order of society, I would re- 
mark, that turbulence and commotion are cer- 
tainly very inimical to the feelings of a refined 
mind. Let the matter be brought to the test 
of experience and observation. Of what de- 
scription of people are mobs and insurrections 
composed ? Are they not universally owing to 
the want of enlargement and improvement of 
mind among the common people ? Nay, let 
any one recollect the character* of those who 
formed the calmer and more deliberate associa- 
tions, which lately gave so much alarm to the 
government of this country. I suppose few of 
the common people who were to lie found in 
•uch societies, had the education and turn of 
mind I have been endeavouring to recommend. 
Allow me to suggest one reason for endeavour- 
ing to enlighten the minds of the common peo- 
ple. Their morals have hitherto been guarded 
by a sort of dim religious awe, which from a 
variety of causes seems wearing off. I think the 
alteration in this respect consi<leniblc, in the 
short period of my observation. I have already 
given my opinion of the effects of refinement of 
mind on morals and virtue. Whenever vulgar 
minds begin to shake off the dogmas of the re- 
ligion in which they have been educated, the 
progress is quick and immediate to downright 
infidelity : and nothing but refinenieut of mind 
can enable them to distinguish between the pure 
essence of religion, and the gross systems which 
men have been perpetually connecting it with. 
In addition to what has already been done fiir 
the education of the common people of this coun- 
try, in the establishment of parish schools, J 
wish to see the salaries augmented in some pro- 
portion to the present expense of living, and the 
earnings of people of similar rank, endowments 
and usefulness, in society ; and I hope that the 
liberality of the present age will be no longer 
disgraced by refusing, to so useful a class of men, 
such encouragement as may make parish schools 
worth the attention of men fitted for the impor- 
tant duties of that office. In filling up the va- 
cancies, I would have more attention paid to the 



candidate's capacity of reading the English lan- 
guage with grace and propriety ; to his under- 
standing thoroughly, and having a, high relish 
for the beauties of English authors, both in poetry 
and prose ; to that good sense and knowledge 
of human nature which would enable him to a«5- 
quire some influence on the minds and affections 
of his scholars j to the general worth of his cha- 
racter, and the love of his king and his country, 
than to his proficiency in the knowledge of Latin 
and Greek. I would then have a sort of high 
English class established, not only for the pur- 
pose of teaching the pupils to read in that grace- 
ful and agree;tble manner that might make them 
fond of reading, but to make them understand 
what they read, and discover the beauties of the 
author, in composition and sentiment. I would 
have established in every parish a small circu- 
lating library, consisting of the books which the 
young people had read extiaets from in the col- 
lections they had read at school, and any other 
books v/ell calculated to refine the mind, improve 
the moral feelings, recommend the practice of 
virtue', and communicate such knowledge as 
might be useful and suitable to the labouring 
classes of men. I would have the schoolmaster 
act us librarian, and in recommending books to 
his young friends, formerly his pupils, and let- 
ting in the light of them upon their young minds, 
lie should have the assistance of the minister. 
If once such education were become general, 
the low delights of the public-house, and other 
scones of riot and depravity, would be contemn- 
ed and negltjcted, while industry, order, cleanli- 
ness, and every virtue which taste and indepen- 
dence of mind could recommend, would prevail 
and nourish. Thus possessed of a virtuous and 
enlightened populace, with high delight I should 
consider my native country as at the head of all 
the nations of the earth, ancient or modern. 

Thus, Sir, have I executed my threat to the 
fullest extent, in regard to the length of my let- 
tor. If I had not presumed on doing it more 
to my liking, I should nut have undertaken it ; 
but I have not time to attempt it anew ; nor, if 
I would, am I certain that I should succeed any 
better. I have learned to have less confidence 
in my capacity of writing on such subjects. 

I am much obliged by your kind inquiries 
about my situation and prospects. I am much 
pleased with the soil of this farm, and with the 
terms on which I possess it. I receive great 
encouragement likewise in building, enclosing, 
and other ccmvenienccs, from my landlord Mr. 
G. S. Monteith, whose general character and 
conduct, as a landlord and country gentleman, 
I am highly pleased with. But the land is in 
such a state as to require a considerable imme- 
diate outlay of money in the purchace of ma- 
uure, the grubbing of brush-wood, removing of 
stones, &c. which twelve years' struggle with a 
farm of a cold ungrateful soil has but ill prepar- 
ed me for. If I can get these things done, 
however, to my mind, I think there is next ta 
a certainty that in five or six years I shall beiq 



802 



BURNS' WORKS. 



a hopeful way of attaining a situation which I 
think is eligible for happiness as any one I 
know ; for I liave always been of opinion, that 
if a man, bred to the habits of a farming life, 
who possesses a farm of good soil, on such terras 
as enables him easily to pay all demand?, is not 
bappy, he ought to look somewhere else than to 
his situation for the causes of his uneasiness. 

1 beg you will present my mo?t respectful 
compliments to Jlrs. Currie, and remember me 
to Mr. and Mrs. Roscoe, and ]\Ir. Roscoe jun. 
whose kind attentions to me, when in Liverpool, 

I shall never forget 1 am, dear Sir, your most 

obedient, and much obliged humble servant, 

GILBERT BURNS. 



DEATH AND CHARACTER OF 
GILBERT BURNS. 

This most worthy and talented individual 
died at Grant's Braes, in the neighbourhood of 
Haddington, and on the estate of Lady Blan- 
tyre, for whom he was long factor, on Sunday 
8th April 1827, in the sixty-seventh year of hjs 
age.* He had no fixed or formed complaint, 
but for several months preceding his dissolution, 
there was a gradual decay of the powers of na- 
ture ; and the infirmities of age, combined with 
severe domestic affliction, hastened the release 
of as pure a spirit as ever inhabited a human 
bosom. On the 4th of January he lost a daugh- 
ter who had long been the ))ride of the family 
hearth ; and on the 26 th of February folloiving, 
his youngest son, — a youth of great piomise, 
died in Edinburgh of typhus fever, just as he 
was about being licensed for the ministry. These 
repeated trials were too much for the excellent 
old man ; the mind which, throughout a long 
and blameless life, had pointed unweariedly to 
its home in the skies, ceased as it were, to hold 
communion with things eartblv, and on the re- 
currence of that hallowed morning, which, like 
Lis sire of old, he had been accustomed to sanc- 
tify, he expired without a groan or struggle, in 
peace, and even love with all mankind, and in 

humble confidence of a blessed imnurtalitv. 

The early life of Mr. Gilbert Burns is inti- 
mately blended with that of the poet. He was 
eighteen months younger than Roi)ert — posses- 
Bed the same penetrating judgment, and, accord- 
ing to Mr. Murdoch, their first instructor, sur- 
passed him in vivacity till pretty nearly the age 
of manhood. Whon the greatest of our bards 
Vras invited by Dr. Blacklock to visit Edinburgh, 
the subject of the present imperfect Memoir was 
•truggling in the churlish farm of Mossgiel, and 
toiling late and early to keep a house over his 
aged mother, and unprotected sisters. In these 
circumstances, the poet's success was the first 
thing that stemmed the ebbing tide of the for- 
tunes of his family. In settling with Mr. Creech 



in February 1768, he received, as the profits of 
his second publication, about i£500, and with 
that generosity, which formed a part of his na- 
ture, he immediately presented Gilbert witn 
nearly the half of his whole wealth. Thus suc- 
coured, the deceased married aMissBreckenridge, 
and removed to a better farm (Dinning in Dum- 
friesshire I, but still reserved a seat at the fami- 
ly board for his truly venerable mother, who die-i 
a few years ago. While in Dinning, he was re- 
commended to Lady Blantyre ; and though our 
memory docs not serve us precisely as to date, 
he must have been an inhabitant of East Lothian, 
for very nearly a quarter of a century. Her 
Ladyship's affairs were managed with the greatest 
fiilelity and prudence ; the factor and his con- 
stituent were worthy of each other ; and in a 
district distinguished for the skill, talents, and 
opulence of its farmers, no man was more re- 
spected then Mr. Gilbert Burns. His wife, 
who still survives, bore him a family of six sons 
and five daughters ; but of these, one son, and 
four daug'nters, predeceased their father. His 
means, though limited, were always managed 
with enviable frugality, as a proof of which we 
may state that every one of his boys received 
what is called a classical education. 



• This sketch is by Mr. Macdiarmid, of the Dum- 
fnes Courier, in which Journal it first appeared. 



No. LXXL 
THE POET'S SCRAP-BOOK. 

The Poet kept a Scrap-Book, which was 
what the title imports, really a thing of shreds 
and patches. In the following extracts, we 
have not been quite so sparing as Dr. Currie, 
whose extracts are above, nor so very profuse as 
Mr. Cromek, who, in his Reliques, has turned 
the book inside out. The prose articles are 
chiefly in the way of maxims or observations 
they have less of \^-orldly selfishness, and more 
of the religious feeling, than those of Rochfou- 
caud : The poetical scraps are numerous — such 
of them as are worth preserving, and have not 
already appeared amongst the poems, will be 
found below. 

MY FATHER WAS A FARMER. 

Tv.nc—" The Weaver and his Shuttle, O." 

Mv Father wag a Farmer upon the Carrick border, O, 

And carefully he bred mc in decency and order, O ; 

lie bade me act a manly part, though I had ne'er a 

farthing, O, 
For without an honest manly heart, no man was worth 
regarding, O. 

Then out into the world my course I did determine, O, 

Tho' to be rich was not my wish, yet to be great was 
charming, O. 

My talents they were not the worst ; nor yet my edu- 
cation, O: 

Rcsolv'd was 1, at least to try, to mend my situation, O. 

In many a way, and vain essay, I courted fortune's fa- 
vour, O: 

Some cause unseen, still slept between, to frustrate 
each endeavour, O ; 

Sometimes by foes I was o'ei-pow'rd ; sometimes by 
friends forsaken, O ; 

And when my hope was at the top, I stiU was woret 
mistaken, O. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



303 



Then «ore harass'd, and tir'd at last, with fortune's 

vain delusion, O ; 
I dropt my schen:ies, like idle dreami, and came to this 

conclusion, O ; 
Tlie past was bad, and the future hid ; iti good or ill 

untryed, O ; 
But the present hour was in Jny pow'r, and so I would 

enjoy it, O. 

No help, nor hope, nor view had I ; nor person to be. 
friend me, O; 

So I must toil, and sweat and broil, and labour to sus- 
tain me, O, 

To plough and sow, to reap and mow, my father bred 
me early, O; 

for one, he said, to labour bred, was a match for for- 
tune fairly, O. 

Thus all obscure, unknown, and poor, thro' life I'm 
doomed to wander, O, 

Till down my weary bones 1 lay in everlasting slum- 
ber, O: 

No view nor care, but shun whate'er mightbreed me 
pain or sorrow. O ; 

I live to day, as well's 1 may, regardless of to-mor- 
row, O. 

But cheerful still, I am as well, as a monarch in a pa- 

jace, O, 
Tho' fortune's frown still hunts rae down, with all her 

wonteil malice, O ; 
I make indeed, my daily bread, but ne'er can make it 

farther, O ; 
But as daily bread is all I need, I do not much regard 

her, O. 

^hen sometimes by mylabour I earn a little money.O, 
Some unforeseen misfortune comes generally upon 

me, O; 
Mischance, mistake, or by neglect, ormy good-natur'd 

folly, O ; 
But comt what will, I've sworn it still, I'll ne'er be 

melancholy, O. 

All you who follow wealth and power with unremit- 
ting ardour, O, 

The more in this you Holi for bliss, yon leave your 
view the farther, O ; 

Had you the wealth Potosi boasts, ornations to adore 
you, O, 

A cheerful honest hearted clown I will prefer before 
you, O. 

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF 
ROBERT RUISSEAUX.* 

Now Robin lies in his last lair. 

He'll gabble rhyme, nor sing nae mair, 

Cauld poverty, wi' hungry stare, 

Nae mair shall fear him ; 
Nor anxious fear, nor cankert care 

E'er mair come near hi^. 

To tell the tmth, they seldom fash't him. 
Except the moment tliat they crush't him ; 
For sune as chance or fate had husht 'em, 

Tho' e'er sae short. 
Then wi' a rhyme or song he lasht 'em. 

And thought it sport. — 

Tho' he was bred to kintra wark. 

And counted was baith wight and stark. 

Vet that was never- Robin's mark 

To mak a man ; 
But tell him, he was a learn'd dark, 

Ve roos'd him then, f 

Melancholy, — There was a certain period of 
my life that my spirit was broke by repeated losses 
mnd disasters, which threatened, and indeed cflfect- 
ed, the utter ruin of my fortune. My body too 
was attacked by that most dreadful distemper, 
a hypochondria, or confirmed melancholy : In 
this wretched state, the recollection of which 



• ilui»«aux— streams — a play on his own name. 
f Yt rooi'd'^ye prais'd. 



makes me yet ehtidder, I hung my harp on the 
willow trees, except in some lucid intervals, in 
one of which I composed the following. (//«•« 
follows the prayer in distress, p. 78. ) — March 
1784. 

Religious Sentiment. — Wliat a creature is 
man ! A little alarm last night, and tu-dav, that 
I am mortal, has made such a revolution on my 
spirits ! There is no philosophy, no divinitv, 
that comes half so much home to the mind. I 
have no idea of courage that braves Heaven : 
'Tis the wild ravings of an imaginary hero in 
Bedlam. 

My favourite feature in IMilton's Satan is his 
manly fortitude in supporting what cannot be 
remedied — in short, the wild, broken fragments 
of a noble, exalted mind in ruins. I meant no 
more by saying he was a favourite hero of 
mine. 

I hate the very idea of a controversial divini- 
ty ; as I firmly believe that every honest upright 
man, of whatever sect, will be accepted of the 
deity. I despise the superstition of a fanatic, 
but I love the religion of a man. 

Nothing astonishes rae more, when a little 
sickness clogs the wheel of life, than the thought- 
less career we run in the hour of health. 
" None saith, where is God, my maker, that 
giveth songs in the night : who teatheth us 
more knowledge than the beasts of the field, 
and more understanding than the fowls of the 
air." 

My creed is pretty nearly expressed in the last 
clause of Jamie Dean's grace, an honest weaver 
in Ayrshire ; " Lord grant that we may lead a 
gude life ! for a gude life maks a gude end, at 
least it helps weel !" 

A decent means of livelihood in the world, an 
approving God, a peaceful conscience, and one 
firm trusty fiiend ; can any body that h,is these, 
be said to be unhappy ? 

The dignified and dignifying consL-iousness of 
an honest man, and the well grounded trust in 
approving heaven, are two most substantial 
sources of happiness. 

Give me, my Maker, to remember thet? ! 
Give me to feel " another's woe ;" and con- 
tinue with me that dear-lov'd friend that feels 
with mine ! 

In g'^nportion as we are wrung with grief, or 
distractSid with anxiety, the ideas of a compas- 
sionate Deity, an Almighty Protector, are doubly 
dear. 

I have been, this morning, taking a peep 
through, as Young finely says, " the dark post- 
ern of time long elapsed ;" 'twas a ruefnl pros- 
pect ! What a tissue of thoughtlessness, weak- 
ness, and folly ! Jly life reminded me of a ruin- 
ed temple. What strength, what proportion in 
some parts ! TMiat unsightly gajis, what pros- 
trate ruins in others ! 1 kneeled down before 
the Father of ]Mercios, and said, " Father I 
have sinned against Heaven, and in thy sight, 
and am no more worthy to be called thv son." 
I rose, eased, and strengthened. 



S04 



BURNS' WORKS. 



L TTERS, 1788. 
No. Lxxn. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Edinburgh, 2\st Jan. 1788. 

After six weeks' confinement, I am begin- 
ning to ■walk across the room. They have been 
six horrible x\'eeks ; anguish and low spirits 
made me unfit to read, write, or think. 

I have a hundred times wished that one 
could resign life as an officer resigns a commis- 
eion : for I would not take in any poor, igno- 
rant wretch, by selUng out. Lately I was a 
sixpenny private ; and, God knows, a miserable 
soldier enough ; now I march to the campaign, 
a starving cadet : a little more conspicuously 
wretched. 

I am ashamed of all this ; for though I do 
want bravery for the warfare of life, I could 
wish, like some other soldiers, to have as much 
fortitude or cunning as to dissemble or conceal 
my cowardice. 

As soon as I can bear the journey, which 
will be, I suppose, about the middle of next 
week, I leave Edinburgh, and soon after I shall 
pay my grateful duty at Dunlop-house. 



but you are sure of being rcspecioole— you esa 
afford to pass by an occasion to display your 
wit, because you may depend for fame on your 
sense ; or if. you choose to be silent, you know 
you can rely on the gratitude of many and the 
esteem of all ; but God help us who are wits or 
witlings by ])rofession, if we stand not for fame 
there, we sink unsupported ! 

I am highly flattered by the news you tell 
me of Coila.* I may say to the fair painter 
who does me so much honour, as Dr. Beattie 
says to Ross the poet, of his Muse Scotia, from 
which, by the bye, I touk the idea of Coila : 
( *Tis a poem of Beattie's in the Scots dialect, 
which perhaps you have never seen. ) 

" Ye shak your head, but o' my fegs, 
Ye've set auld Scotia on her legs : 
Lang had she lien wi' buffe and flegs, 

Bombaz'd and dizzie, 
Her fiddle wanted strings and pegs, 

Waes me, poor hizzie." 



No. LXXIIL 



EXTRACT OF A LETTER 



TO THE SAIVIE. 



Edinburgh, 12th Feb. 1788. 
Some things, in your late letters, hurt me ; 
not that you say them, but that you mistake me. 
Religion, my honoured Madam, has not only 
been all my life my chief dependence, but my 
dearest enjoyment. I have indeed been the 
luckless victim of wayward follies ; but, alas i 
I have ever been " more fool than knave." 
A mathematician without religion, is a proba- 
ble character ; an irreligious poet, is a monster. 



No. LXXIV. 

TO A LADY. 

MADAM, Mossgiel, Ith March, 1788. 

The last paragraph in yours of the 30th Fe 
bruary affected me most, so I shall begin my 
answer where you ended your letter. That I 
am often a sinner with any little wit I have, I 
do confess : but I have taxed my recollection to 
no purpose, to find out when it was employed 
agamst you. I hate an ungenerous sarcasm, a 
great deal worse than I do the devil ; at least 
as Mi'iton describes him ; and though I may be 
tascawy enO'igh to be sometimes guilty of it my- 
self, 1 cannot endure it in others. You, my 
honoured friend, who cannot appear in any light, 



No. LXXV. 
TO MR. ROBERT CLEGHORN. 

Mauchline, 3]st March, 1788. 

Yesterday, my dear Sir, as I was riding 
through a track of melancholy joyless muirs, 
between Galloway and Ayrshire, it being Sun- 
day, I turned my thoughts to psalms, and 
hymns, and spiritual songs ; and your favourite 
air. Captain O'Kean, coming at length in my 
head, 1 tried these words to it. You will see 
that the first part of the tune must be repeated.f 

I am tolerably pleased with these verses, but 
as I have only a sketch of the tune, I leave it 
with you to try if they suit the measure of the 
music. 

I am so harassed with care and anxiety, about 
this farming project of mine, that my muse has 
degenerated into the veriest prose-wench that 
e^'er picked cinders, or followed a tinker. When 
I am fairly got into the routine of business, I 
shall trouble you with a longer epistle ; perhaps 
with some queries respecting farming ; at pre- 
sent, the world sits such a load on my mind, 
that it has effaced almost every trace of the 

in me. 



IMy very best compliments and good widxes 
to ]\lrs. Cleghorn. 



No. LXXVL 
FROM SIR. ROBERT CLEGHORN. 
Sanghton Mills, 27th April, 1788. 

MY DEAR BKOTHEll FARMER, 

I WAS favoured with your very kind letter of 



* A l.idy was making a picture from the description 
of Coila in the Vision. 

t "ere "le bard gives the first stanza of the C/ieva- 
tier's Lament, 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



305 



the Sltt ult. and consider myself greatly obliged 
to you, for your attention in sending me the 
»ong to my favourite air, Captain O'Kean, 
The words delight me much ; they fit the tune 
to a hair. I wish you would send me a verse 
or two more ; and if you have no objection, I 
would have it in the Jacobite style. Suppose 
it should be sung after the fatal field of Cullo- 
den by the unfortunate Charles : Tenducci per- 
sonates the lovely Mary Stuart in the song 
Queen Mary's Lamentation, — Why may not 
I sing in the person of her great-great-great 
grandson ?* 

Any skill I have in country business you may 
truly command. Situation, soil, customs of 
countries may vary from each other, but Far- 
mer Attention is »good farmer in every place.' 
I beg to hear fi-om you soon. ]\L-s. Cleghoru 
joins me in best compliments. 

I am, in the most comprehensive sense of the 
y-Vloii, your very sincere friend, 

ROBERT CLEGHORN. 



No. LXXVII. 
TO MR. JAMES SJHTH, 

ATOK »RINTFIEI.D, UKLITB60W. 

Mauchline, April 28, 1788. 

Bkware of your Strasburgh, my good Sir ! 
Look on this as the opening of a correspondence 
like the opening of a twenty-four gun battery ! 

There is no understanding a man properly, 
without knowing something of his previous ideas 
(that is to say, if the man has any ideas ; for I 
know many who in the animal-muster, pass for 
men, that are the scanty masters of only one 
idea on any given subject, and by far the great- 
est litt of your acquaintances and mine can 
bsrely boast of ideas, l.?5 — 1.5 — 1.75, or some 
such fractional matter), so to let you a little 
into the secrets of my pericranium, there is, you 
must know, a certain clean-limbed, handsome, 
bewitching young hussy of your acquaintance, 
to whom I have lately and privately given a ma- 
trimonial title to my corpus. 

" Bode a robe and wear it," 

Says the wise old Scots adage ! I hate to pre- 
sage ilUluck ; and as my girl has been doubly 
kinder to me than even the best of women 
usually are to their partners of our sex, in simi- 
lar circumstances, I reckon on twelve times a 
brace of children against I celebrate my twelfth 
weAling day : these twenty-four will give me 
twenty-four gossippings, twenty-four christen- 
ings, (I mean one equal to two), and I hope by 
the blessing of the God of my fathers, to make 



• Our Poet took this advice. See poetry for the 
Vholc of thai beautiful song— the Cbevalici'i LunicuU i 



them twenty-four dutiful children to their pa- 
rents, twenty-four useful members of society, 
and twenty-four approven servants of their God ! 

«' Light's heartsome," quo' the 

wife when she was stealing sheep. You see 
what a lamp I have hung up to lighten your 
paths, when you are idle enough to explore the 
combinations and relations of my ideas. 'Tis 
now as plain as a pike-staff, why a twenty-four 
gun battery was a metaphor I could readily 
employ. 

No\(f for business..— I intend to present Mrs. 
Burns with a printed shawl, an article of which. 
I dare say you have variety : 'tis my first pre- 
sent to her since I have irrevocably called her 
mine, and I have a kind of whimsical wish to 
get her the said first present from an old and 
much valued friend of hers and mine, a trusty 
Trojan, on whose friendship I count myself 
possessed of a life-rent lease. 



Look onthis letter as a •* beginning of sor- 
rows ;" I'll write you till your eyes ache with 
reading nonsense. 

Mrs. Bums ('tis only her private deaigOA- 
tion), begs her best compliments to you. 



No. Lxxvin. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

MADAM, Mauchline, 2Sth April, 178$ 

You a powers of reprehension must be great 
indeed, as I assure you they made my heart 
ache with penitential pangs, even though I waa 
really not guilty. As I cotnmence farmer at 
Whitsunday, you will easily guess I must be 
pretty busy ; but that is not all. As I got the 
offer of the excise business without solicitation ; 
and as it costs me only six months' attendance 
for instructions, to entitle me to a commission ; 
which commission lies by me, and at any future 
period, on my simple petition, can be resumed ; 
I thought five and thirty pounds a-year was no 
bad dernier resort for a poor poet, if fortune in 
her jade tricks should kick him down from the 
little eminence to which she has lately helped 
him up. 

For this reason, I am at present attending 
these instructions, to have them completed be- 
fore Whitsunday. Still, Madam, I prepared 
with the sincerest pleasure to meet you at the 
Jlount, and came to my brother's on Saturday 
night, to set out on Sunday ; but for some 
nights preceding I had slept in an apartment, 
where the force of the winds and rain was only 
mitigated by being sifted through numberless 
apertures in the windows, walls, &c. In con- 
sequence 1 was on Sunday, ISIonday, and part 
of Tuesday unable to stir out of bed, with all 
the miserable effects of a violent cold, 
o9 



8C6 



BURNS' WORKS. 



You »M, Mariam, tke fiutii of the French 
tnnxiin, Z,g vriii n'est pas tunjottri^ Ic vnii-sem- 
hluble ! your last was so tiill of expostulation, 
and was Noinethinw so like the languiipre of au 
offended fiiend, that 1 heg.m to tremble for a 
eorruspondeiice, which I luid with grateful plea- 
sure set down as one of the greatest enjoyments 
of my future life. 



Your books have delighted me ; Virgil, Drij- 
dtn, and Tasso, were all equal strangers to me ; 
but of thii more at large in uiy next. 



No. LXXIX. 

FROM THE REV. JOHN SKINNER. 

MAR SIR, Linshart, 2Sth April, 1788. 

I RECEIVED your last, with the curious ])re- 
■ent you have favoured me with, and would 
have made proper acknowledgments before now, 
but that I have been necessarily engaged in 
matters of a different complexion. And now 
that I have got a little respite, I make use of it 
to thank you for this valuable instance of your 
good will, and to assure you that, with the sin- 
cere heart of a true Scotsman, I highly esteem 
both the gift and the giver : as a small testi- 
mony of which I have herewith sent you fur 
your amusement (and in a form which! hope 
you will excuse for saving postage) the two 
■ongs I wrote about to you already. Charming 
Nancy is the real production of genius in a 
ploughman of twenty years of age at the time 
of its appearing, with no more education than 
what he picked up at an old farmer-grandfa- 
ther's fireside, though now, by the strength of 
natural parts, he is clerk to a thriving bleach- 
field in the neighbourhood. And I doubt not 
but you will find in it a simplicity and delicacy, 
with some turns of humour, that will please 
one of your taste ; at least it pleased me when 
,1 first saw it, if that can be any recommenda- 
tion to it. The other is entirely descriptive of 
my own sentiments, and you may make use of 
one or both as you shall see good.* 



• CHARMING NANCY. 

A BONO, BY A BUCHAN PLOUGHMAN. 

Tune—" Humours of Glen." 

SOMB sing of sweet Mally, some sing of fair Nelly, 

And some call sweet Susie the cause of their pain : 
Some love to be jolly, some love melancholy, 

And some love to sing of the Humours of Glen. 
But my only fancy, is ray pretty Nancy, 

In venting my passion, I'll strive to be plain, 
ril ask no more treasure, I'll seek no more pleasure, 

But thee, my dear Nancy, gin thou wert my ain. 

Her beauty delights me, her kindness invites me, 
. Ji« pleasant behaviour is free from all staiu ; 



You will obI!(Te me by presenting tny respcetf 
to your host, I\Ir, Cruikshimk, who has givea 
such high approbation to my poor Latinity ; 
you may let him know, that ae I have likewise 
been a dabbler in Latin poetry, I have two 
things that I would, if he desires it, submit not 
to his judgment, but to his amusement : the 
one, a translation of Christ's Kirk o' tkeGreen, 
printed at Aberdeen some years ago ; the other, 
Butnic/iomijiiDiiichia Homeri Latinis versibus 
cum additanientis, given in lately to Chalmers, 
to print if he pleases. Jlr. C. will know 5e- 
ria non semper ddectatit, non joca semper. 
Semper delectaiit seria mixta jocis. 

I have just room to repeat complimenta and 
good wishes from. 

Sir, your humble servant, 

JOHN SKINNER. 



No. LXXX. 
TO PROFESSOR DUGALD STEWART. 

SIR. Mauchline, 3d May, 1787. 

I ENCLOSE you one or two more of my baga- 
telles. If the fervent wishes of honest grati- 
tud"; have any influence with that great, un- 
known Being, who frames the chain of causes 
and events ; prosperity and happiness will at- 
tend your visit to the Continent, and return you 
safe to your native shore. 

Wherever I am, allow me. Sir, to claim it as 
my privilege, to acquaint you with my progress 
in my trade of rhymes ; as I am sure I could 
say it with truth, that, next to my little fame, 
and the having it in my power to make life 



Therefore, my sweet jewel, O do not prove cruel. 
Consent, my dear Na ey, and come be my ain: 

Hor carriage is comely, her language is homely, 
Her dress is quite decent when ta'cn in the main: 

She's blooming in feature, she's handsome in stature. 
My charming, dear Nancy, O wert thou my ain !, 

Like Phoebus adorning the fair ruddy morning. 

Her bright eyes are sparkling, her brows are serene. 
Her yellow locks shining, in beauty combining. 

My charming, sweet Nancy, wilt thou be my ain? 
llie whole of her face is with maidenly graces 

Array'd like the gowans, that grow in yon glen. 
She's well sliaped and slender, true hearted and tender. 

My charming, sweet Nancy, O wert tliou my ain ! 

I'll seek through the nation for some habitation. 

To shelter my dear from the cold, snow, and rain. 
With songs to my deary, I'll keep her aye cheery. 

My charming, sweet N.mcy, gm thou'wertmy ain. 
1 11 work at my calling, to furnish thy dwelling. 

With ev'ry thing needful thy life to sustain ; 
Thou shall not sit single, but by a clear ingle, 

I'll marrow thee, Nancy, when thou art my am. 

I'll make true affection the constant direction 

Of loving my N:iney while life doth ren ain : 
Tho' youth will be wasting, true love shall be lasting. 

My charming, sweet Nancy, gin thou wert my ain. 
But what it' my Nancy should alter her fancy. 

To favour another be forward and lain, 
I will not compel her, but plainly I'll tell her, 

BCijune thou falso Nancy, thoii'se ne'er be my ain, 

Tl?c Old Man's Song, (see p. 13j), 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



307 



tiiiiON eomfortal)le to tiiosA whom nature hut 
made dear to me, I ehall ever regard your coun- 
tenance, your patronage, your friendly good of- 
fices, aa the moat valued consequence of my late 
luccest in life. 



No. LXXXI. 

EXTKACT OF A I.ETTEB 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

MADAM, Mauchline, ith May, 1788. 

Drtden's Virgil has delighted me. I do 
not know whether the critics will agree with 
me, but the Georgics are to me by far the best 
of Virgil. It is indeed a species of writing en- 
tirely new to me ; and has filled my head with 
s thousand fancies of emulation ; but, alas ! 
when I read the Georgics, and then survey my 
own powers, 'tis like the idea of a Shetland 
poney, drawn up by the side of a thorough-bred 
hunter, to start for the plate. I own I am dis- 
appointed in the JEneid. Faultless correct- 
ness may please, and does highly please the let- 
tered critic ; but to that awful character I have 
not the most distant pretensions. I do not 
know whether I do not hazard my pretensions 
to be a critic of any kind, when I say that I 
think Virgil, in many instances, a servile copier 
of Homer. If I had the Odyssey by me, I 
could parallel many passages where Virgil has 
evidently copied, but by no means improved 
Homer. Nor can I think there is any thing of 
this owing to the translators ; for, from every 
thing I have seen of Dryden, I think him, in 
genius and fluency of language, Pope's master. 
I have not perused Tasso enough to form an 
opinion : in some future letter, you shall have 
any ideas of him ; though I am conscious my 
criticisms must be very inaccurate and im])er- 
fect, as there I have ever felt and lamented my 
want of learning most. 



No. LXXXII. 
TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 

Mauchline, May 26, 1788 

XT DEAR FRIEND, 

I AM two kind letters in your debt, but I 
have been from home, and horridly busy buying 
and preparing for my farming business ; over 
and above the plague of my Excise instructions, 
which this week will finish. 

As I flatter my wishes that I foreeee many 
future years' correspondence between us, 'tis 
foolish to talk of excusing dull epistles : a dull 
letter may be a very kinti. one. I have the plea- 
fure to tell you that I have been extremely for- 



tunate In all my buylngs and bargainings hither- 
to ; Mrs. Burns not excepted ; which title I 
now avow to the world. I am truly pleased 
with this last afiair : it has indeed added to my 
anxieties for futurity, but it lias giveu ii stability 
to my mind and resolutions, unknown before ; 
and the poor girl has the most sacred enthusiasm 
of attachment ta me, and has not a wish but to 
gratify my every idea of her deportment. 
I am interrupted. 

Farewell ! my dear Sir. 



No. Lxxxm. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

MADAM, 27fA May, 1788. 

I HAVE been torturing my philosophy to no 
purpose, to account for that kind partiality of 

yours, which, unlike 

, has followed me in my 

return to the shade of life, with assiduous be- 
nevolence. Often did I regret in the fleeting 
hours of my late will-o'-wisp appearance, that 
" here I had no continuing city ;" and but for 
the consolation of a few solid guineas, could 
almost lament the time that a momentary ac- 
quaintance with wealth and splendour put me 
so much out of conceit with the sworn com- 
panions of my road through life, insignificance, 
and poverty. 



There are itvr circumstances relating to the 
unequal distribution of the good things of this 
life, that give me more vexation (I mean in 
what I see around me) than the importance the 
opulent bestow on their trifling family affairs, 
compared with the very same things on the con- 
tracted scale of a cottage. Last afternoon I had 
the honour to spend an hour or two at a good 
woman's fireside, where the planks that com- 
posed the floor were decorated with a splendid 
carpet, and the gay table sparkled with silver 
and china. 'Tis now about term-day, and there 
has been a revolution among those creatures, 
who, though in appearance partakers, and 
equally noble partakers of the same nature with 
madame ; are from time to time, their nerves, 
their sinews, their health, strength, wisdom, 
experience, genius, time, nay, a good part of 
their very thoughts, sold for months and years. 



not only to the necessities, the conveniences, but 
the caprices of the important few.* We talked 
of the insignificant creatures ; nay, notwith- 
standing their general stupidity and rascality, 
did some of the poor devils the honour to com- 



* Servants in Scotland are hired from term to .cnOi 
i. (. from Whitsunday to Martliuna3, ^c 



SOS 



BURNS* WORKS. 



mend them. But light be the turf upon liis 
breast, who taught " Reverence thyself." We 
looked down on the upolished wretches, their 
impertinent wives and clouterly brats, as the 
lordly bull does on the little dirty ant-hill, 
whose puny inhabitants he crushes in the care- 
lessness of his ramble, or tosses ia air in the 
wantooness of his pride. 



No. LXXXIV. 
TO THE SAME. 

(at MR. DUNLOP's, HADDINOTON.) 

ElUshnd, I3th June, 1788. 
" Where'er I roam, whatever realms I see, 
My heart, untravell'd, fondly tuins to thee ; 
Still to my friend it turns with ceaseless pain, 
And drags at each remove a lengthen'd chain." 

GOLDSMITH. 

This is the second day, my honoured friend, 
that I have been on my farm. A solitary in- 
mate of an old, smoky spence ; far from every 
object I love, or by whom I am loved ; nor any 
acquaintance older than yesterday, except Jen- 
ny Geddes, the old mare I ride on ; while un- 
couth cares, and novel plans, hourly insult my 
awkward ignorance and bashful inexperience. 
There is a foggy atmosphere native to my soul 
in the hour of care, consequently the dreary ob- 
jects seem larger than the life. Extreme sensi- 
bility, irritated and prejudiced on tVie gloomy 
side by a series of misfortunes and disappoint- 
ments, at that period of my existence when the 
soul is laying in her cargo of ideas for the voyage 
of life, is, I believe, the principal cause of this 
unhappy frame of mind. 

" The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer ? 
Or what need he regard his single woes ?" &c. 

Your surmise, Madam, is just ; I am indeed 
a husband. 



I found a once much-loved and still much- 
loved female, literally and truly cast out to the 
mercy of the naked elements, but as I enabled 
her to purchase a shelter ; and there is no 
sporting with a fellow-creature's happiness or 
misery. 

The most placid good-nature and sweetness 
of disposition ; a warm heart, gratefully devoted 
with all its powers to love me ; vigorous health 
and sprightly cheerfulness, set off to the best 
advantage, by a more than common handsome 
figui-e ; theW) I think, iu a womao, ma^ make 



a good wife, though she should never have read 
a page, but the Scriptures of the Old and New 
Testament, nor have danced in a brighter as- 
sembly than a penny pay-wedding. 



No. LXXXV. 
TO MR. P. HILL. 

MY DEAR HILL, 

I SHALL say nothing at all to your mad pre* 
sent — you have so long and often been of im- 
portant service to me, and I suppose you mean 
to go on confen'ing obligations until I shall not 
be able to lift up my face before you. In the 
meantime, as Sir Roger de Coverley, because it 
happened to be a cold day in which he made 
his will, ordered his servants great coats for 
mourning; so, because I have been this week 
plagued with an indigestion, I have sent yoa by 
the carrier a fine old ewe-milk cheese. 

Indigestion is the devil : nay, 'tis the devil 
and all. It besets a man in every one of bis 
senses. I lose my appetite at the sight of suc- 
cessful knavery ; and sicken to loathing at the 
noise and nonsense of self-important folly. 
When the hollow-hearted wretch takes me by 
the hand, the feeling spoils my dinner ; the 
proud man's wine so offends my palate, that it 
chokes me in the gullet ; and the pulvilis'd, 
feathered, pert coxcomb, is so disgustful in ray 
nostril that my stomach turns. 

If ever you have any of these disagfreeabte 
sensations, let me prescribe for you patience and 
a bit of my cheese. I know that you are no 
niggard of your good things among your friends, 
and some of them are in much need of a slice. 
There in my eye is our friend Smellie, a man po- 
sitively of the first abilities and greatest strength 
of mind, as well as one of the best hearts and 
keenest wits that I have ever met with : when 
you see him, as, alas ! he too is smarting at the 
pinch of distressful circumstances, aggravated 
by the sneer of contumelious greatness — a bit of 
my cheese alone will not cure him, but if you 
add a tankard of brown stout, and superadd a 
magnum of right Oporto, you will see his sor- 
rows vanish like the morning mist before the 
summer sun. 

C h, the earliest friend, except my only 

brother, that I have on earth, and one of the 
worthiest fellows that ever any man called by 
the name of friend, if a luncheon of my cheese 
would help to rid him of some of his supera- 
bundant modesty, you would do well to give it 
him. 

David • with his Courant comes, too, acrose 
my recollection, and I beg you will help him 



* Printer of the Edinburgh Sreniog Courast, 



^ 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



309 



largely from the said ewe-milk cheese, to ena- 
ble him to digest those bedaubing para- 
graphs with which he is eternally larding the 
lean characters of certain great men in a certain 
great town. I grant you the periods are very 
well turned : so, a fresh egg is a very good 
thing ; but when thrown at a man in a pillory 
it does not at all improve his figure, not to men- 
tion the irreparable loss of the egg. 

My facetious fripnd, D r, I would wish 

also to be a partaker ; not to digest his spleen, 
for that he laughs oflF, but to digest his last 
night's wine at the last field-day of the Croch- 
allan corps. * 

Among our common friends I must not for- 
get one of the dearest of them, Cunningham. 
The brutality, insolence, and selfishness of a 
world unworthy of having such a fellow as he 
is in it, I know sticks in his stomach, and if 
you can help him to any thing that will make 
bim a little easier on that score, it will be very 
obliging. 

As to honest J S e, he is such a 

contented happy man that I know not what can 
annoy him, except perhaps be may not have got 
the better of a parcel of modest anecdotes which 
a certain poet gave him one night at supper, 
the last time the said poet was in town. 

Though I have mentioned so many men of 
law, I shall have nothing to do with them pro- 
fessedly — the Faculty are beyond my prescrip- 
tion. As to their clients, that is another thing ; 
God knows they have much to digest ! 

The clergy I pass by ; their profundity of 
erudition, and their liberality of sentiment ; 
their total want of pride, and their detestation 
of hypocrisy, are so proverbially notorious as to 
place them far, far above either my praise or 
censure. 

I was going to mention a man of worth, 
whom I have the honour to call friend, the 
Laird of Craigdarroch ; but I have spoken to 
the landlord of the King's arms inn here, to 
have, at the next county-meeting, a large ewe- 
milk cheese on the table, for the benefit of the 
Dumfriesshire whigs, to enable them to digest 
the Duke of Queensberry's late political con- 
duct. 

I have just this moment an opportunity of a 
private hand to Edinburgh, as perhaps you would 
Dot digest double postage. 



No. LXXXVI. 

TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 

JSllisiand, June U, 1788. 
This is now the third day, my dearest Sir, 
that I have sojourned in these regions ; and du- 
ring these three days you have occupied more 
of my thoughts than in three weeks preceding ; 



• A club of choice spirits. 



In AjTshire I have several variations of friend- 
ship's compass, here it points invariably to the 
pole. — My farm gives me a good many uncouth 
cares and anxieties, but I hate the language of 
complaint. Job, or some one of his friends, 
says well — " Why should a living man com- 
plain ?" 

I have lately been much mortified with con- 
templating an unlucky imperfection in the very 
framing and construction of my soul ; namely, 
a blundering inaccuracy of her olfactory organs 
in hitting the scent of craft or design in my 
fellow creatures. I do not mean any compli- 
ment to my ingenuousness, or to hint that the 
defect is in consequence of the unsuspicious sim- 
plicity of conscious truth and honour : I take it 
to be, in some way or other, an imperfection in 
the mental sight ; or, metaphor apart, some 
modification of dulness. In two or three small 
instances lately, I have been most shamefully 
out. 

I have all along, hitherto, in the warfare of 
life, been bred to arms among the light-horse— 
the piquet-guards of fancy ; a kind of hussars 
and highlanders of the brain ; but I am firmly 
resolved to sell out of these giddy battalions, who 
have no ideas of a battle but fighting the foe, or 
of a siege but storming the town. Cost what it 
will, I am determined to buy in among the grave 
squadrons of heavy-armed thought, or the artil- 
lery corps of plodding contrivance. 

What books are you reading, or what it the 
subject of your thoughts, besides the great stu- 
dies of your profession ? You said something 
about religion in your last. I don't exactly re- 
member what it was, as the letter is in Ayr- 
shire ; but 1 thought it not only prettily saidj 
but nobly thought. You will make a noble fel- 
low if once you were married. I make no re- 
servation of your being well-marned : You hav* 
so much sense, and knowledge of human nature^ 
that though you mny not realize perhaps the 
ideas of romance, yet you will never be ill-mar- 
ried. 

Were it not for the terrors of my ticklish si- • 
tuation respecting provi^ion for a family of chil- 
dren,. I am decidedly of opinion that the step I 
have taken is vastly for my happiness. As it is, 
I look to the excise scheme as a certainty of 
maintenance ; a maintenance, luxury to what 
either Mis. Burns or I were born to. 

Adiea. 



No. LXXXVIL 

TO MR. MORISON,* "WtuoBXt 
Maucuune. 

Eilisland, June SS, 178& 

MV nEAR SIR, 

Necessity obliges me to go into my new 



• This letter rcrcrs to chairs, and other articles o( 
furniture which the i'get had ordered. 



lfh-A\ox\ /i>r///f //tfj'j: i/ni/ /W /), //.v."' 



"// 



X 




•^/H 




^Jmxtqrri. 
















l^M:^ ff^ /flti'^^^^td m^f ^^oD 



Oornxr 







7 




A 



^.. 





310 



BURNS' WORKS. 



house, even before it be plastered. I will inha- 
bit the one end until the other is finished. About 
three weeks more, I think, will at farthest, be 
my time, beyond which I cannot stay in this 
present house. If ever you wished to deserve 
the blessing of him that was ready to perish ; if 
ever you were in a situation that a little kind- 
ness would have rescued you from many evils ; 
if ever you hope to find rest in future states of 
untried being ; — get these matters of mine rea- 
dy. My servant will be out in the beginning of 
next week for the clock. My compliments to 
Mrs. Morison. 

I am, after all my tribulation, 

Pear Sir, yours. 



No. LXXXVIII. 
TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 

EUisland, June 30, 1788. 

MY DEAR SIR, 

I JUST now received your brief epistle ; and 
to take vengeanca on your laziness, I have, you 
Bee, taken a long sheet of writing-paper, and 
have begun at the top of the page, intending to 
scribble on to the very last corner. 

I am vext at that affair of the . . ., but 
dare not enlarge on the subject until you send 
me your direction, as I suppose that will be al- 
tered on your late master and friend's death. I 
am concerned for the old fellow's exit, only as I 
fear it may be to your disadvantage in any re- 
spect — for an old man's dying, except he have 
been a very benevolent character, or in some 
particular situation of life, that the welfare of 
the poor or the helpless depended on him, I 
think it an event of the most trifling moment to 
the world. Man is naturally a kind benevolent 
animal, but he is dropt into such a needy situa- 
tion here in this vexatious world, and has such 
a whoreson, hungry, growling, multiplying pack 
of necessities, appetites, passions, and desires 
about him, ready to devour him for want of 
other food ; that in fact he must lay aside his 
cares for others, that he may look properly to 
himself. You have been imposed upon in pay- 
ing Mr. M for the profile of a Mr. H. I 

did not mention it in my letter to you, nor did 

I ever give Mr. M any such order. I have 

no objection to lose the money, but I will not 
have any such profile in my possession. 

I desired the carrier to pay you, but as I 
mentioned only 16s. to him, 1 will rather in- 
close you a guinea-note. 1 have it not indeed 
to spare here, as I am only a sojourner in a 
strange land in this place ; but in a day or two 
I return to Mauchline, and there I have the 
bank-notes through the house, like salt permits. 

There is a great degree of folly in talking un- 
necessarily of one's private affairs. I have just 
iMW been interrupted b^ one of my new aei^h- 



bours, who has made himself absolutely con- 
temptible in my eyes, by his silly, garrulous 
pruriency. I know it has been a fault of my 
own too ; but from this moment I abjure it as I 
would the service of hell ! Your poets, spend- 
thrifts, and other fools of that kidney, pretend, 
forsooth, to crack their jokes on piudence, but 
'tis a squalid vagabond glorying in his rags. 
Still, imprudence respecting money matters, is 
much more pardonable than imprudence respect- 
ing character. I have no objection to prefer 
prodigality to avarice, in some few instances ; 
but I appeal to your observation, if you have 
not met, and often met, with the same little dis- 
ingenuousness, the same hollow-hearted insin- 
cerity, and disintegritive depravity of principle, 
in the hackney'd victims of profusion, as in the 
unfeeling children of parsimony. I have every 
possible reverence for the much-talked-of world 
beyond the grave, and I wish that which piety 
believes and virtue deserves, may be all matter 
of fact — But in things belonging to and termi- 
nating in this present scene of existence, man 
has serious and interesting business on hand. 
Whether a man shall shake hands with wel- 
come in the distinguished elevation of respect, 
or shrink from contempt in the abject corner of 
insignificance ; whether he shall wanton under 
the tropic of plenty, at least enjoy himself in the 
comfortable latitudes of easy convenience, or 
starve in the arctic circle of dreary poverty ; 
whether he shall rise in the manly consciousness 
of a self-approving mind, or sink beneath a gall- 
ing load of regret and remorse — these are alter- 
natives of the last moment. 

You see how I preach. You used occasion- 
ally to sermonize too ; I wish you would in 
charity, favour me with a sheet full in your own 
way. I admire the close of a letter Lord Bo- 
lingbroke writes to Dean Swift, " Adieu, dear 
Swift ! with all thy faults I love thee entirely : 
make an effort to love me with all mine !'* 
Humble servant, and all that trumpery, is novr 
such a prostituted business, that honest friend- 
ship, in her sincere way, must have recourse to 
her primitive, simple, — farewell ! 



No. LXXXIX. 

TO MR. GEORGE LOCKHART, 
Merchant, Glasgow. 

MY DFAR SIR, MauchUne, July 18, 1788. 

I AM just going for Nithsdalc, else I would 
certainly have transcribed some of my rhyming 
things for you. The Miss Bailies 1 have seen 
in Edinburgh. " Fair and lovely are thy works. 
Lord God Almighty ! Who would not praise 
Thee for these Thy gifts in Thy goodness to the 
sons of men !" It needed not your fine taste to 
admire them. I declare, one day I had the 
honour of dining at Mr. Bailie's, I was almost 



CORHESPONDENCE. 



311 



ia the predicament of the children of Israel, 
when they could not look on Moses's face for 
the glory that shone iu it when he descended 
from IMount Sinai. 

I did once write a poetic address from the 
falls of Bruar to his Grace of Athole, when I 
was in the Highlands. When you return to 
Scotland let me know, and I will send such of 
my pieces as please myself best. 

I return to Mauchline in about ten days. 

My compliments to Mr. Purden. I am in 
truth, but at present in haste, 

, Yours sincerely. 



No. XC. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Mauchline, 2d Aitg. 1788. 

HONOURED MADAM, 

Your kind letter welcomed me yesternight, 
to Ayrshire. I am indeed seriously angry with 
you at the quantum of your luckpenny ; hut 
vexed and hurt as I was, I could not help laugh- 
ing very heartily at the noble lord's apology for 
the missed napkin. 

I would write you from Nithsda!e, and give 
you my direction there, but I have scarce an 
opportunity of calling at a post-office once in 
a fortnight. I am six miles from Dumfries, 
am scarcely ever in it myself, and, as yet, have 
little acquaintance in the neighbourhood. Be- 
sides, I am now very busy on my farm, build- 
ing a dwelling-house j as at present I am al- 
most an evangelical man in Nithsdale, for I have 
scarce " where to lay my head." 

There are some passages in your last that 
brought tears in my eyes. " The heart know- 
eth its own sorrows, and a stranger intermed- 
dleth not therewith." The repository of these 
" sorrows of the heart," is a kind of sanctum 
sanctorum ; and 'tis only a chosen friend, and 
that too at particular, sacred times, who dares 
enter into them. 

" Heaven oft tears the bosom chords 
That nature finest strung." 

You will excuse this quotation for the sake 
of the author. Instead of enteiing on this sub- 
ject farther, I shall transcribe you a few lines I 
wrote m a hermitage belonging to a gentleman 
in my Nithsdale neighbourhood. They aie al- 
most the only favours the muse has couferred 
ou me in that country. 

{The lines on Friar Carse hermitac/c, he 
ginying 

Thou whom chance may hither lead.) 

Since I am in the way of transcribing, tin. j 



following were the production of yesterday as 
I jogged through the wild hills of New Cum- 
nock. I intended inserting tliem, or something 
like them, in an epistle I am going to write to 
the gentleman on whose friendship my excise 
hopes depend, Mr. Graham of Fiutry ; one of 
the worthiest and most accomplished gentle- 
men, not only of this country, but I will dare 
to say it, of this age. The following are just 
the Srst crude thoughts " unhousel'd, uaaa-> 
ointed, unanell'd." 



Pity the tuneful muses' helpless train ; 
Weak, timid landsmen on life's stormy main : 
The world were blest, did bless on them do* 

peod ; 
Ah, that " the friendly e'er should want • 

friend !" 
The little fate bestows they share as soon ; 
Unlike sage, proverb'd, wisdom's hard-wrung 

boon. 
Let prudence number o'er each sturdy son 
Who life and wisdom at one race begun ; 
Who feel by reason and who give by rule ; 
Instinct's a brute, and sentiment a fool ! 
Who make poor will do wait upon I should ; 
We own they're prudent, but who feels they're 

good? 

Ye wise one's, hence ! ye hurt the social eye ; I 
God's image rudely etch'd on base alloy I 
But come 

Here the muse left me. I am astonished at 
what you tell me of Anthony's writing me. I 
never received it. Poor fellow ! you vex me 
much by telling me that he is unfortunate. I 
shall be in Ayrshire ten days from this date. 
I have just room for an old Roman farewell 1 



No. XCI. 
TO THE SAME. 
Mauchline, \Oth August, 1788. 

MY MUCH HONOUHED FRIEND, 

Yours of the 24th June is before me. I 
found it, ns well as another valued friend — my 
wife, waiting to welcome me to Ayrshire : I 
met both with the sincerest pleasure. 

Wliea I write you, Madam, I do not sit down 
to answer every paragraph of yours, by echoing 
every sentiment, like the faithful commons ot 
Great Biitain in parliament assembled, answer- 
ini^ a speech from the best of kings ! I express 
myself in the fulness of loy heart, and may per- 
haps be giiilry of neglecting some uf your kind 
iiKjuiries ; but not from your vrry odd reason 
that I do not real your letters. All your epi^tlea 
lor several uiuntlis havu cost me nothing, ez« 



818 



BURKS' WORK& 



eept ■ nrdUng throb of gratitude, or a deep- 
felt sentiment of veneration. 

Mn. Bums, Madam, is the identicdl woman 



When she first found herself " as women wish 
to be who love their lords ;" as I loved her 
nearly to distraction, we took steps for a pri- 
vate marriage. Her parents got the hint ; and 
not only forbade me her company and their 
house, but on my rumoured West Indian voy- 
age, got a warrant to put me in jail, till I should 
find security in my about-to-be paternal rela- 
tion. You know my lucky reverse of fortune. 
On my eclatint return to IMauchline, I was 
made very welcome to visit my girl. The usual 
consequences began to betray her ; and as 1 was 
at that time laid up a cripple in Edinburgh, 
she was turned, literally turned out of doors, 
and I wrote to a friend to shelter her, till my 
return, when our marriage was declared. Her 
happiness or misery was in my hands, and who 
could trifle with such a deposit ? 



I can easily fancy a more agreeable compa- 
nion for my journey of life, but, upon my ho- 
nour, I have never seen the individual instance. 



Circumstanced as I am, I could never have 
got a female partner for life, who could have 
entered into my favourite studies, relished my 
favourite authors, &c. without probably entail- 
ing on me, at the same time, expensive living, 
fantastic caprice, perhaps apish affectation, with 
all the other blessed boarding-school acquire- 
ments, which (pardonnez moi, Madame) are 
sometimes to be found among females of the up- 
per ranks, but almost universally pervade the 
misses of the would-be-gentry. 



I like your way in your church-yard lucu- 
brations. Thoughts that are the spontaneous 
result of accidental situations, either respecting 
health, place, or company, have often a strength, 
and always an originality, that would in vain 
be looked for in fancied circvunstauces and stu- 
died paragraphs. For me, 1 have often thought 
of keeping a letter, iti progression, by me, to 
send you when the sheet was written out. Now 
1 talk of sheets, I must tell you, my reason for 
writing to you on paper of this kind, is my pru- 
riency of writing to you at large. A page of 
post is on such a dissocial, narrow-minded scale, 
that I cannot abide it ; and double letters, at 
least in my miscellaneous reverie manner, ore a 
monstrous tax in a close correspondence. 



No.xcn. 

TO THE SAME. 



ElUsland, I6th August, 1788. 
I AM in a fine disposition, my honoured friend, 
so send you an elegiac epistle ; and want only 
genius to make it quite Shenstonian. 

" Why droops my heart with fancied woes for- 
lorn ? 
Why sinks my soul beneath each wintry sky?" 



My increasing cares in this, as yet, strange, 
country — gloomy conjectures in the dark vista 
of futurity — consciousness of my own inability 
for the struggle of the world — my broadened 
mark to misfortune in a wife and children :— 
I could indulge these reflections, till my humour 
should ferment into the most acrid chagrin, that 
would corrode the very thread of life. 

To counterwork these baneful feelings, I have 
sat down to write to you ; as I declare upon 
my soul I always find that the most sovereign 
balm for my wounded spirit. 

I was yesterday at Mr. 's to dinner, for 

the first time. My reception was quite to my 
mind ; from the lady of the house quite flatter- 
ing. She sometimes hits on a couplet or two, 
impromptu. She repeated one or two to the 
admiration of all present. My suffrage as a 
professional man was expected : I for once went 
agonizing over the belly of ray conscience. Par- 
don me, ye, my adored household gods, Inde- 
pendence of Spirit, and Integrity of Soul ! In 
the course of conversation, Johnson's Musical 
Mvseum, a collection of Scottish songs with thQ 
music, was talked of. We got a song on the 
harpsichord, beginning, 

" Raving winds around her blowing," 

Tlie air was much admired : the lady of ths 
hou-e asked me whose were the words — " Mine, 
Madam — they are indeed my very best verses :" 
she took not the smallest notice of them ! The 
old Scottish proverb says, well, " king's caff is 
bettLr than ither folks' corn." I was going to 
make a New Testament quotation about " cast- 
ing i)earls ;" but that would be too virulent, 
for the lady is actually a woman of sense and 
taste. 



After all that has been said on the other side 
of the question, man is by no means a happy 
creature. I do not speak of the selected few, 
favoured by partial heaven, whose souls are tun- 
ed to gladness amid riches and honours, and pru- 
dence and wisdom — I speak of the neglected 
many, whose nerves, whose sinews, whose days 
are sold to the minions of fortune. 

If I thought you had never seen it, I would 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



SIS 



traiucribe for yon a stanza of an old Scottish 
ballad, called The Life and Age of Man, be- 
ginning thus, 

** 'Twas in the sixteenth hunder year 

Of God and fifty three, 
Frae Christ was born, that bought us dear, 

As writings testifie." 

I had an old grand-uncle, with whom my 
mother lived a while in her girlish years ; the 
good old man, for such he was, was long blind 
ere he died, during which time, his highest en- 
joyment was to sit down and cry, while my mo- 
ther would sing the simple old song of The life 
and Age of Man. 

It is this way of thinking — it is those melan- 
choly truths, that make religion so precious to 
the poor, miserable children of men — If it is a 
mere phantom, existing only in the heated ima- 
gination of enthusiasm, 

*• What truth on earth so precious as the lie !" 

My idle reasonings sometimes make me a lit- 
tle sceptical, but the necessities of my heart al- 
ways give the cold philosophizings the lie. 
■ Who looks for the heart weaned from earth ; 
the soul affianced to her God ; the correspon- 
dence fixed with heaven ; the pious supplica- 
tion and devout thanksgiving, constant as the 
vicissitudes of even and morn ; who thinks to 
meet with these in the court, the palace, in the 
glare of public life ? No : to find them in their 
precious importance and divine efficacy, we must 
search among the obscure recesses of disappoint- 
ment, affliction, poverty, and distress. 

I am sure, dear Madam, you are now more 
than pleased with the length of my letters. I 
return to Ayrshire, middle of next week : and 
it quickens my pace to think that there will be 
a letter from you waiting me there. I must be 
here again very soon for my harvest. 



No. xcni. 

TO R. GRAHAM, OF FINTRY, Esq. 

SIB, 

When I had the honour of being introduced 
to you at Athole-house, I did not think so soon 
of asking a favour of you. When Lear, in 
Shakspeare, asks old Kent, why he wished to 
be in his service, he answers, " Because you 
have that in your face which I could like to 
eall master." For some such reason, Sir, do I 
now solicit your patronage. You know, I dare 
say, of an application \ lately made to your 
Board to be admitted an officer of excise. I 
have, according to form, been examined by a 
supervisor, and to-day I gave in his certificate, 
with a request for an order for iastructions. In 



this affair, if I succeed, I am afiraid I shall but 
too much need a patronizing friend. Propriety 
of conduct as a man, and fidelity and attention 
as an officer, I dare engage for ; but with any 
thing like business, except manual labour, I am 
totally unacquainted. 



I had intended to have closed my late ap- 
pearance on the stage of life, in the character 
of a couatry farmer ; but after discharging 
some filial and fraternal claims, I find I could 
only fight for existence in that miserable man- 
ner, which I have lived to see throw a venera- 
ble parent into the jaws of a jail ; whence death, 
the poor man's last and often besh friend, rescu- 
ed hira. 

I know, Sir, that to need your goodness is to 
have a claim on it j may I therefore beg your 
patronage to forward me in this affiir, till I be 
appointed to a division, where, by the help of 
rigid economy, I will try to support that inde- 
pendence so dear to my soul, but which hat 
been too often so distant from my situation. 



When nature her great master-piece designed, 
And fram'd her last, best work, the human mindi 
Her eye intent on all the mazy plan, 
She form'd of various parts the various man. 

Then first she calls the useful many forth ; 
Plain plodding industry, and sober worth ; 
Thence peasants, f irmers, native sons of earth. 
And merchandise' whole genus take their birth: 
Each prudent cit a warm existence finds. 
And all mechanics' many-aproned kinds. 
Some other rarer sorts are wanted yet, 
The lead and buoy are needful to the net : 
The caput mortuum of gross desires 
Makes a material, for mere knights and squires ; 
The martial phosphorus is taught to flow, 
She kneads the lumpish philosophic dough, 
Then marks th' unyielding mass with grave de* 

signs. 
Law, physics, politics, and deep divines : 
Last, she sublimes th' Aurora of the poles, 
The flashing elements of female souls. 

The order'd system fair before her stood. 
Nature well pleased pronounced it very good ; 
But ere she gave creating labour o'er, 
Half jest, she tried one curious labour more. 
Some spumy, fiery, ignis fatmis matter; 
Such as the slightest breath of air might scatter ; 
With arch alacrity and conscious glee 
(Nature may have her whim as well as we. 
Her Hogarth-art perhaps she meant to show it) 
She forms the thing, and christens it — a poet. 
Creature, tho' oft the prey of care and sorrow, 
When bless'd to-day unmindful of to-morrow. 
A being form'd t'amuse his graver friends, 
Admired and praised — and there the homagt 
ends : ^^ 



314 



BURNS' WORKS. 



A mortal quite unfit for fortune's strife, 
Yet oft the sport of all the ills of life ; 
Prone to enjoy each pleasure riches give, 
Yet haply wanting wherewithal to live : 
Longing to wipe each tear, to heal each groan, 
Yet frequent all unheeded in his own. 

But honest Nature is not quite a Turk, 
She laugh'd at first, then felt for her poor work. 
Pitying the propless climber of mankind, 
She cast about a standard tree to find ; 
And to support his helpless woodbine state, 
Attach'd him to the generous truly great. 
A title, and the only one T claim. 
To lay strong hold for help on bounteous Gra> 
ham. 

Pity the tuneful muses' hapless train, 
Weak, timid landmen on life's stormy main ! 
Their hearts no selfish stern absorbent stufiT, 
That never gives — tho' humbly takes enough ; 
The little fate allows, they share as soon, 
Unlike sage, proverb'd, wisdom's hard-wrung 

boon. 
The world wers bless'd, did bless on them de- 
pend, 
Ah, that " the friendly e'er should want a 

friend!" 
Let prudence number o'er each sturdy son. 
Who life and wisdom at one race begun. 
Who feel by reason, and who give by rule, 
(Instinct's a brute, and sentiment a fool !) 
Who make poor will do wait upon I should— 
We own they're prudent, but who feels their 

good? 
Ye wise ones, hence ! ye hurt the social eye ! 
God's image rudely etch'd on base alloy ! 
But come ye who the godlike pleasure know, 
Heaven's attribute distinguish'd — to bestow ! 
Whose arms of love would grasp the human race ; 
Come thou who giv'st with all a courtier's grace ; 
Friend of my life, true patron of my rhymes ! 
Prop of my dearest hopes for future times. 
Why shrinks my soul half blushing, half afraid. 
Backward, abash'd to ask thy friendly aid ? 
I know my need, I know thy giving hand, 
I crave thy friendship at thy kind command ; 
But thore are such who court the tuneful nine — 
Heavens, should the branded character be mine ! 
Whose verse in manhood's pride sublimely flows, 
Yet vilest reptiles in their begging prose. 
Mark, how their lofty independent spirit. 
Soars on the spurning wing of injured merit ! 
Seek not the proofs in private life to find ; 
Pity, the best of words, should be but wind ! 
So, to heaven's gates the lark-shrill song ascends, 
But grovelling on the earth the carol ends. 
In all the clam'rous cry of starving want, 
They dun benevolence with shameless ft'ont ; 
Oblige them, patronize their tinsel lays. 
They persecute you all your future days ! 
Ere my poor soul such deep damnation stain, 
My horny fist assume the plough again ; 
The pie-ball'd jacket let me patch once more ; 
Ob eighteen pence a-week I've lived before. 



Though, th.anks to heaven, I dare even tliat last 

shift, 
I trust, meantime, my boon is in thy gift : 
That placed by thw, upon the wish'd-for height, 
Where, man and nature fairer in her sight. 
My muse may iaip her wing for !iome sublimcr 

flight.* 



No. XCIV. 
TO MR. BEUGO, Ekg raver, Edinbu»oh. 

MY DEAR SIR, ElUsland, Sept. 9, 1788. 

There is not in Edinburs^h above the nuiD« 
ber of the graces whose letters would have given 
me so much pleasure as yours of the Sd instant, 
which only reached me yesternight. 

I am here on my farm, busy with my har- 
vest ; but for all tiiat most pleasurable part of 
life called social communication, I am here 
at the very elbow of existence. The only things 
that are to be found in this country in any de- 
gree of perfection, are stupidity and canting. 
Prose, they only know in graces, prayers, &c, 
and the value of these they estimate as they do 
their plaidinj; webs — by the ell ! As for the 
muses, they have as much an idea of a rhino- 
ceros as of a poet. For my old capricious but 
good-natured hussy of a muse — 

By banks of Nith I sat and wept 

When CoiU I thought on, 
lu midst thereof I hung ray harp 

The willow trees upon. 

I am generally about half my time in Ayrshire 
with my " darling Jean," and then I, at lucid 
intervals, throw my horny fist across my be- 
cobwebbed lyre, much in the same manner at 
an old wife throws her hand across the spoket 
of her spinning wheel. 

I well send you " The Fortunate Shepherd- 
ess" as soon as I return to Ayrshire, for there 
I keep it with other precious treasure. I shall 
send it by a careful hand, as I would not for 
any thing it should be mislaid or lost. I do 
not wish to serve you from any benevolence, or 
other grave Christian virtue ; 'tis purely a sel- 
fish gratification of my own feelings whenever 
I think of you. 



If your better functions would give you lei- 
sure to write me I should be exticmely happy ; 
that is to say, if you neither keep nor look fur a 



• This is our poet's first epistle to Graham of Fin. 
try. It is not equal to the second, but it contains too 
nuieh of the characteristic vigour of its .tiithor to bo 
suppressed. A little more knowledge I'f jiiiturai histo- 
ry or of ehcmi^try was wanted to enab'e ^iva to ex»» 
cute the ornjinaJ lonceutiou correctly. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



SI5 



tegrular correspondence. 1 hate the idea of being 
obliged to write a letter. I sometimes write a 
friend twice a week, at other times ouce a 
quarter. 

1 am exceedingly pleased with your fancy in 
making the author you mention place a map of 
Iceland instead of his portrait before his works : 
'Twas a glorious idea. 

Could you conveniently do me one thing — 
Whenever you finish any head I could like to 
have a proof copy of it. I might tell you a 
long story about y^ur fine genius ; but as what 
every body knows cannot have escaped you, I 
•hall not say one syllable about it. 



No. XCV. 

TO MISS CHALMERS, Edinburgh. 

EUisUmd, near Dumfries, Sept. 16, 1788. 
Where are you ? and how are you ? and is 
Lady M'Kenzie recovering her health ? for I 
have had but one solitary letter from you. I 
will not think you have forgot me. Madam ; 
and for my part — 

" When thee Jerusalem I forget, 
Skill part from my right hand !" 

" My heart is not of that rock, nor ray soul 
careless as that sea." I do not make my pro- 
gress among mankind as a bowl does among its 
fellows — rolling through the crowd without 
bearing away any mark or impression, except 
where they hit in hostile collision. 

I am here, driven in with my harvest-folks 
by bad weather ; and as you and your sister 
once did me the honour of interesting yourselves 
much a Vegard de moi, I sit down to beg the 
continuation of your goodness. — I can truly say 
that, all the exterior of life apart, I never saw 
two, whose esteem flattered the nobler feelings 
of my «oul — I will not say, more, but, so much 
as Lady M'Kenzie and Miss Chalmers. When I 
think of you — hearts the best, miuds the noblest, 
of human kind — unfortunate, even in the shades 
of life — when I think I have met with you, and 
have lived more of real life with you in eight 
days, than I can do with almost any body I meet 
with in eight years — when I think on the im- 
probability of meeting you in this world again 
— I could sit down and cry like a child ! — If 
ever yon honoured me with a place in your 
esteem, I trust I can now plead more desert. — 
I am secure against that crushing grip of iron 
poverty, which, alas ! is less or more fatal to the 
native worth and purity of, I fear, the iioblest 
souls ; and a late, important step ioimy life has 
kindly taken me out of the way of those un- 
gratefid iniquities, which, however overlooked 
ia fwhionable license, or varnished in fashion- 



able phrase, are indeed but lighter and deeper 
shades of villainy. 

Shortly after my last return to Ayrshire, I 
married " my Jean." This was not in conse- 
quence of the attachment of romance perhaps ; 
but I had a long and much-loved fellow-crea- 
ture's happiness or misery ia my determination, 
and I durst not trifle with so important a depo- 
sit. Nor have I any cause to repent it. If I 
have not got polite tattle, modish manners, and 
fashionable dress, I am not sickened and disgust- 
ed with the multiform curse of boarding-school 
affectation ; and I have got the handsomest fi- 
gure, the sweetest temper, the soundest consti- 
tution, and the kindest heart in the county. 
Mrs. Burns believes, as firmly as her creed, that 
I am le plus bel esprit, et le plus honnete honme 
in the universe ; although she scarcely ever in 
her life, except the Scriptures of the Old and 
New Testament, and the Psalms of David ia 
metre, spent five minutes together on either 
prose or verse. I must except also from this 
last, a certain late publication of Scots poeras, 
which she has perused very devoutly ; and all 
the ballads in the country, as she has (O the 
partial lover ! you will cry) the finest " wood* 
note wild" I ever heard. — I am the more parti- 
cular in this lady's character, as I know she 
will henceforth have the honour of a share in 
your best wishes. She is still at Mauchline, as 
I am building my house ; for this hovel that I 
shelter in, while occasionally here, is pervious to 
every blast that blows, and every shower that 
falls ; and I am only preserved from being chill- 
ed to death, by being suffocated with smoke. I 
do not find my farm that pennyworth I waa 
taught to expect, but I believe, in time, it may 
be a saving bargain. You will be pleased to 
hear that I have laid aside idle eclat, and bind 
every day after my reapers. 

To save me from that horrid situation of at 
any time going down, in a losing bargain of » ' 
farm, to misery, I have taken my excise instruc- 
tions, and have my commission in my pocket 
for any emergency of fortune. If I could set aU 
before your view, whatever disrespect you in 
common with the world, have for this business, 
I know you would approve of my idea. 

I will make no apology, dear Madam, for thia 
egotistic detail : I know you and your sister 
will be interested in every circamstance of it. 
What signify the siily, idle gewgaws of wealth, 
or the ideal trumpery of greatness ! When fel- 
low partakers of the same nature fear the same 
God, have the same benevolence of heart, the 
same nobleness of soul, the same detestation at 
every thing dishonest, and the same scorn at 
eveiy thing unworthy — if they are not in the 
dependance of absolute beggary, in the name of 
common sense are they not equals ? And if 
the bias, the instinctive biiis of their souls niD 
the same way, why may they not be rmcNSs ? 

When I may have an opportunity of sendiuf 
you this. Heaven only knows. Shenstoue says, 
" ^Vhen one is ooofiDed idle within doon by ba4 



S16 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Weather, the best antidote against ennui is, to 
read the letters of, or write to one's friends ;" 
in that case then, if the weather continues thus, 
I may scrawl you half a quire. 

I very lately, to wit, since harvest began, 
■wrote a poem, not in imitation, but in the man- 
ner of Pope's Moral Epistles. It is only a short 
essay, just to try the strength of my Aluse's pi- 
nion in that way. I will send you a copy of it, 
when once I have heard from you. I have like- 
wise been Living the foundation of some pretty 
large poetic works : how the superstructure 
will come on I leave to that great maker and 
marrer of projects — time. Johnson'* collection 
of Scots songs is going on in the third volume ; 
aud of consequence finds me a consumpt for a 
gre;it deal of idle metre. — One of the most to- 
lerable things I have done in that way, is, two 
stanzas that I made to an air, a musical gentle- 
man ' of ray acquaintance composed for the an- 
niversary of his wedding-day, which happens on 
the seventh of November. Take it as follows : 

The day returns — my bosom burns. 

The blissful day we twa did meet, &c. — P. 29. 

I shall give over this letter for shame. If I 
•hould be seized with a scribbling fit, before this 
goes away, I shall make it another letter ; and 
then you may allow your patience a week's re- 
spite between the two. I have not room for 
more than the old, kind, hearty, farewell ! 

To make some amends, mes cheres Mesdames, 
for dragging you on to this second sheet ; and to 
relieve a little the tiresomeness of my unstudied 
and uncorrcctible prose, I shall transcribe you 
eome of my late poetic bagatelles ; though I have, 
these eight or ten months, done very little that 
way. One day, in an hermitage on the banks 
of Nith, belonging to a gentleman in my neigh 
bourhood, who is so good as give me a key at 
pleasure, I wrote as follows ; supposing myself 
the sequestered, venerable inhabitant of the 
lonely mansion. 

(itnes written in Friar's Carse Hermitage.\) 



No. XCVI. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP, OF DUNLOP. 

Mauchline, 21th Sept. ,1788. 
I HAVE received tvvins, dear Madam, more 



• Captain Riddel of Glenriddel. 

t The poetic teiniierament is ever predisposed to 
gensations of the " horrible and awful." Bums, in 
returning from his visits at Glenriddel to his farm at 
EUislanif, had to pass through a little wild wood in 
which stood the Hermitage. When the night was 
dark and dreary it was his custom generally to solicit 
an additional parting glass to fortify his spirits and 
keep up his courage. This was related by a lady, a 
near relation of Captain Riddel's, who had frequent 
opportunities of seeing this salutary practice cxempli- 



than once ; but scarcdy ever witli mora pl«ft> 

sure than when I received yourg of the 12th in- 
stant. To make myself understood ; I had 
wrote to Mr. Graham, enclosing my poem ad- 
dressed to him, and the same post which fa- 
voured me with yours, brought me an answer 
from him. It was dated the very day he had 
received mine ; and I am quite at a loss to say 
whether it was most polite or kind. 

Your criticisms, my honoured benefactress, 
are truly the work of a friend. They are not 
the blasting depredations of a canker-toothed, 
caterpillar critic ; nor are they the fair state- 
ment of cold impartiality, balancing with un- 
feeling exactitude, the pro and con of an au- 
thor's merits; they are the judicious observa- 
tions of animated friendship, selecting the beau- 
ties of the piece. I have just arrived from 
Nithsdale, and will be here a fortnight. I was 
on horseback this morning by three o'clock ; 
for between my wife and my farm is just forty- 
six miles. As I jogged on in the dark, T was 
taken with a poetic fit, as follows : 

" Mrs. F of C 's lamentation for the 

death of her son ; an uncommonly promising 
youth of eighteen or nineteen years of age." 

( Here follow the verses, entitled, " A Mo- 
ther's Lament for tlie Loss of her Son,"') 

You will not send me your poetic rambles, 
but, you see, I am no niggard of mine. I am 
sure your impromptu's give me double plea- 
sure ; what falls fiom your pen, can neither be 
unentertaining in itself, nor indifferent to me. 

The one fault you found, is just ; but I can- 
not please myself in an emendation. 

What a life of solicitude is the life of a p^ 
rent ! You interested me much in your young 
couple. 

I would not take my folio paper for this 
epistle, and now I repent it. I am so jaded 
with my dirty long journey that I was afraid to 
drawl into the essence of dulness with any thing 
larger than a quarto, and so I must leave out 
another rhyme of this morning's manufacture. 

I will pay the sapicntipoteut George most 
cheerfully, to hear from you ere I leave Ayr- 
shire. 



No. XCVII. 
TO MR. P. HILL. 

Mauchline, \st October, 1788. 
I HAVE been here in this country about three 
days, and all that time my chief reading has 
been the " Address to Loch Lomond," you 
were so obliging as to send to me. Were I im- 
pannelled one of the author's jury, to determine 
his criminality respecting the sin of poesy, my 
verdict should be " guilty ! A poet of Natart'i 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



dit 



making!" It is an excellent method for im- 
provement, and what I believe every poet does, 
to place some favour-te classic author, in his 
own walks of study and composition, before him, 
n a model. Though your author had not nicu- 
tioned the name, I could have, at half a glance, 
guessed his model to be Thomson. Will my 
brother post forgive me, if I venture to hint, 
that his imitation of that immortal bard, is in 
_ two or three places rather more servile than 
Wich a genius as his required. — e. g. 

To soothe the madding passions all to peace, 

. I ADDRESS. 

To soothe the throbbing passions into peace, 

THOMSON. 

1 think the Address is, in simplicity, har- 
mony, and elegance of versification, fully equal 
to the Settions. Like Thomson, too, he has 
looked into nature for himself: you meet with 
no copitd description. One particular criti- 
cism I made at first reading : in no one instance 
has he said too much. He never flags in hi? 
progress, but like a true poet of Nature's mak- 
ing, kindles in his course. His beginning is 
simple, and modest, as if distrustful of the 
strength of hiu pinion ; only, I do not altoge- 
ther like 

« Truth, 

The soul of every song that's nobly great. " 

Fiction is the soul of many a song that is no- 
bly great. Perhaps I am wrong : this may be 
but a prose criticism. Is not the phrase, in line 
7, page 6, " Great lake," too much vulgarized 
by every-day language, for so sublime a poem ? 

•• Great mass of waters, theme for nobler song," 

is perhaps no emendation. His enumeration of 
a comparison with other lakes, is at once har- 
monious and poetic. Every reader's ideas must 
sweep the 

" Winding margin of an hundred miles." 

The perspective that follows mountains blue — 
the imprisoned billows beating in vain — the 
wooded isles — the digression on the yew-tree — 
" Ben Lomond's lofty cloud-enveloped head," 
&c are beautiful. A thunder-storm is a subject 
which has been often tried, yet our poet, in his 
grand picture, has interjected a circumstance, so 
far as I know, entirely original : 

" The gloom 
Deep seam'd with frequent streaks of moving 
fire." 

In his preface to the storm, " the glens how 
dark between," is noble highland landscape ! 
The " tain plowing the red mould," too, is 
btautifulljr fancied. Ben Lomond's " lofty, 



pathless top," is a good expression ; and the 
surrounding view from it is truly great ; the 

" Silver mist, 
, Beneath the beaming sun," 

is well described ; and here, he has contrived to 
enliven his poem with a little of that passion 
which bids fuir, I think, to usurp the modern 
muses altogether. I know not how far this epi- 
sode is a beauty upon the whole, but the swain's 
wish to carry " some faint idea of the vision 
bright," to entertain her " partial listening ear," 
is a pretty thought. But, in my opinion, the 
most beautiful passages in the whole poem, are 
the fowls crowding, in wintry frosts, to Loch 
Lomond's " hospitable flood ;" their wheeling 
round, their lighting, mixing, diving, &c. and 
the glorious description of the sportsman. This 
last is equal to any thing in the Seasons, The 
idea of " the floating tribes distant* seem, far 
glistering to the moon," provoking his eye as he 
is obliged to leave them, is a noble ray of poetic 
genius. " The howling winds," the "hideous 
roar" of " the white cascades," are all in the 
same style. 

I forget that while I am thus holding forth, 
with the heedless warmth of an enthusiast, I 
am perhaps tiring you with nonsense. I must, 
however, mention, that the last verse of the six- 
teenth page is one of the most elegant compli- 
ments I has'e ever seen. I must likewise notice 
that beautiful paragraph, beginning, " The 
gleaming lake," &f. I dare not go into the 
particular beauties of the two last paragraphs, 
but they are admirably tine, and truly Ossianic. 

I must beg your pardon for this lengthened 
scrawl. I had no idea of it when I began — I 
should like to know who the author is ; but, 
whoever he be, please present him with mjr 
grateful thanks for the ente^^dinment he has af- 
forded me. * 

A friend of mine desired me to commission 
for him two books. Letters on the Reliyion es- 
sentud to Man, a book you sent me before ; 
and, 7'/ic World Unmasked, or the Philosopher 
the greatest Cheat. Send me them by the first 
opportunity. The Sible you seat me is trnly 
elegant ; I only wish it had been in two volumes. 



No. xcvin. 

TO AIRS. DUNLOP, AT MOREHAM 
MAINS. 

MADAM, Manchline, \3th Nov. 1788. 

I HAD the very great pleasure of dining at 
Dunlop yesterday. Men are said to flatter wo- 



• The poem entitled An Address to Loch L<moni, 
is said to be written by a gentleman, now one uf tha 
masters of the Hi^hSciiool ai K.linliurgh, and thesama 
who translated the be'utirul story of the Paria, ai pub 
li;>hed in the Bee of Dr. Anderson, 



ftie 



BURNS* WORKS. 



mia becMte tliey are weak ; if it ii to, poet) 
tnudt be weaker still; for Misses R. and K. 
and Mi»i G. M'K, with their flattering atten- 
tioDf, and artful compliments, absolutely turned 
my bead. I own they did not lard me over as 

jumj » poet does his patron 

but they so intoxicated me with 

their tlj insinuations and delicate inuendos of 
eompliment, that if it had not been for a lucky 
reeoUection, how much additional weight and 
lustre your good opinion and friendship must 
give mc in that circle, 1 had certainly looked 
upon niyielf as a person of no small consequence. 
I dare not say one word how much I was charm- 
td with the major's friendly welcome, elegant 
manner, and acute remark, lest I should be 
thought to balance my orientalisms of applause 
•Ytr against the finest quey * in Ayrshire, which 
he made a present of to help and adorn my farm. 
■tock. As it was on hallow-day, I am deter- 
mined annually as that day returns, to decorate 
kir horns with an ode of gratitude to the family 
•f Dunlop. 



So soon as I know of your arrival at Dunlop, 
I will take the first eonveniency to dedicate a 
day, or perhaps two, to you and friendship, un- 
der the guarantee of the major's hospitality. 
There will soon be threescore and ten miles of 
permanent distance between us ; and now that 
your friendship and friendly coiTespondence is 
•ntwisted with the heart-strings of my enjoy- 
ment of life, I must indulge myself in a hapi)y 
dajr of " the feast of reason and the flow of soul." 



No. XCIX. 



TO 



aiR, November 8, 17S8. 

Notwithstanding the opprobrious epithets 
with which some of our philosophers and gloomy 
■aetaries have branded our nature — the princi- 
ple of universal selfishness, the proneness to all 
•ril, they have given us ; still, the detestation 
in which inhumanity to the distressed, or inso- 
lence to the fallen, are held by all mankind, 
ahowi that they are not natives of the human 
heart. — Even the unhappy partner of our kind, 
who is undone — the bitter consequence of his 
follies or his crimes — who but sympathises with 
the miseries of this ruined profligate brother ? 
we forget the injuries, and feel for the man. 

I went last Wednesday to my parish church, 
most cordially to join in grateful acknowledge- 
ments to the Author of all Good, for the 
consequent blessings of the glorious revolution. 
To that auspicious event we owe no less than 
our liberties civil and religious ; to it we are 
likewise indebted for the present Royal Family, 



t Heifer. 



the ruling features of wtiOBe administration haVe 
ever been, mildness to the subject, and tenderneM 
of his rights. 

Bred and educated in revolution principles, 
the principles of reason and common sense, it 
could not be any silly political prejudice which 
made my heart revolt at the harsh, abusive man- 
ner, in which the reverend gentleman mention- 
ed the House of Stuart, and which I am afiraid, 
was too much the language of the day. We 
may rejoice sufficiently in our deliverance from 
past evils, without cruelly raking up the ashes 
of those, whose misfortune it was, perhaps as 
much as their crime, to be the authors of those 
evils ; and we may bliss God for all his good- 
ness to us as a nation, without, at the same time, 
cursing a few ruined, powerless exiles, who only 
harboured ideas, and made attempts, that most 
of us would have done, had we been in their si- 
tuation. 

" The bloody and tyrannical House of Stuart," 
may be said with propriety and justice when 
compared with the present Royal Family, and 
the sentiments of our days ; but is there no al- 
lowance to be made for the manners of the 
times I Were the royal contemporaries of the 
Stuarts more attentive to their subjects' rights ? 
Might not the epithets of " bloody and tyranni- 
cal" be, with at least equal justice, applied to 
the House of Tudor, of York, or any other of 
their predecessors ? 

The simple state of the case, Sir, seems to be 
this — At that period, the science of government, 
the knowledge of the true relation between king 
and subject, was, like other sciences and other 
knowledge, just in its infancy, emerging from 
dark ages of ignorance and barbarity. 

The Stuarts only contended for prerogatives 
which they knew their predecessors enjoyed, and 
which they saw their contemporaries enjoying ; 
but these prerogatives were inimical to the hap- 
piness of a nation, and the rights of subjects. 

In this contest between prince and people, 
the consequence of that light of science, which 
hud lately dawned over Europe, the monarch 
of France, for example, was victorious over the 
struggling liberties of his people : with us, luckily 
the monarch failed, and his unwarrantable pre- 
tensions fell a sacrifice to our rights uwd happi- 
ness. Whether it was owing to the wisdom 
of leading individuals, or to the justling of par- 
ties, I caunot pretend to determine ; but like- 
wise, happily for us, the kingly power was shift- 
ed into another branch of the family, who, as 
they owed the throne solely to the call of a free 
people, could claim nothing inconsistent with 
the covenanted terms which placed them there. 

The Stuarts have been condemned and laugh- 
ed at fiir the folly and impracticability of their 
attempts in 1715 and 1743. That they failed, 
I bless God ; but cannot join in the ridicule a- 
gainst them. Who does not know that the abi- 
lities or defects of leaders and commanders are 
often hidden until put to the touchstone of exi- 
gency ; and that there is a caprice of fortune| 



COtlRESPONfDEMCE. 



Sl9 



in omnipotetiee in pai'ticular accidents aod con- 
junctures of circmnstant'cs, which exalt us as he- 
roes, or braud us as niadnien, juat as tliey arc 
for or agaiilst us ? 

Man, Mr. Pul)lisher, is a strange, weak, in- 
CouNistent being. Who would believe, Sir, that. 
in this our Augustan age of liberality and re- 
finement, while we seem so justly sensible and 
jealous of our rights and liberties, and animated 
with such indignation against the very memory 
of those who would have subverted them — that 
k certain people, under our national protection, 
should complain not against our monarch and 
a few favourite advisers, but against our whole 
LEGISLATIVE BODV, for similar oppression, and 
almost in the very same terms, as our forefathers 
did of the House of Stuart ! I will not, I can- 
not enter into the merits of the cause, but I dare 
•ay the American Congress, in 1776, will be al- 
lowed to be as able and as enlightened as the 
English convention was in 1688 ; and that their 
posterity will celebrate the centenary of their de- 
liverance from us, as duly and sincerely as we 
do 0UI1 from the oppressive measures of the 
wrong-headed House of Stuart. 

To conclude. Sir ; let every man who has a 
tear for the many miseries incident to humani- 
ty, feel for a family illustrious as any in Europe, 
and unfortunate beyond historic precedent ; and 
let every Briton (and particularly every Scots- 
nan), who ever looked with reverential pity on 
the dotage of a parent, cast a veil over the fatal 
mistakes of the kin?s of his forefathers. * 



No. C. 



TO MR. JAMES JOHNSON, Engraver, 
Edinburgh. 

Mauchline, Nov. 15, 1788. 

MY DEAR SIR, 

I HAVE sent you two more songs. — If you 
have got any tunes, or any thing to correct, 
please send them by return of the carrier. 

I can easily see, my dear friend, that you will 
Tery probably have four volumes. Perhaps you 
may not find your account lucrativeli/, in this 
business ; but you are a patriot for the music of 
your country ; and 1 am certain, posterity will 
look on themselves as highly indebted to your 
public spirit. Be not in a hurry ; let us go on 
correctly ; and your name shall be immortal 

I am preparing a flaming preface for your 
third volume. 1 see every day, new musical 
publications advertised ; but what are they ? 
Gaudy, hunted butterflies of a day, and then va- 
nish for ever : but your work will outlive the 
momentary neglects of idle fashion, and defy the 
teeth of time. 



• This letter was sent to the puWisher of the Edin 
tWgk Bvcning CourarU.S 



Have you uever a fair goddesi that lead* you 
a wild-goose chase of amorous devotion ? Let 
me know a tew of her qualities, such as, whe- 
ther she be either black, or fair ; plump, or 
thia ; short, or tall, &c. ; and choose your air, 
and I shall task my Muse to celebrate her. 



No. CI. 



TO DR. BLACKLOCK. 

Mauchline, Nov. 15, 1798. 

REV. AND DKAR SIR, 

As I hear nothing of your motions but that 
you are, or were, out of town, I do not know 
where this may find you, or whether it will find 
you at all. I wrote you a long letter, dated 
from the land of matrimony, in June ; but 
either it had not found you, or, what I dread 
more, it found you or Mrs. Blacklock in too 
precarious a state of health and spirits, to take 
notice of an idle packet. 

I have done many little things for Johnson, 
since I had the pleasure of seeing you ; and I 
have finished one piece, in the way of Pope'a 
Moral ^pintles ; but from your silence, I have 
every thing to fear, so I have only sent you two 
melancholy things, which I tremble lest they 
should too well suit the tone of your present 
feelings. 

In a fortnight I move, bag and baggage, to 
Nithsdale ; till then, my direction is at this 
place ; after that period, it will be at Ellisland, 
near Dumfries. It would extremely oblige me 
were it but half a line, to let me know how you 
are, and where you are. — Can I be indifferent 
to the fate of a man, to whom I owe so much ? 
A man whom I not only esteem but venerate. 

My warmest good wishes and most respectful 
compliments to Mrs. Blacklock, and Miss John- 
ston, if she is with you. 

I cannot conclude without telling you that I 
am more and more pleased with the step I took 
respecting " my Jean." — Two things, from my 
happy experience, I set down as apothegms in 
life. A wife's head is immaterieJ, compared 
with her heart — and — " Virtue's (for wisdom 
what poet pretends to it) — ways are ways of 
pleasantness, and all her paths are peace." 
Adieu ! 



(Here foUow " T/ie mother^s lament for the 
loss nf her son," p. 200, and the song begin- 
ning, " The lazy mist hangs from tht brow <ff 
the hill," p. 23 k) 



sso 



BURNS' WORKS. 



No. CII. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
EUisland, \1th December, 1788. 

MT DEAK. HONOURED FRIEND, 

Yours, dated Edinburgh, which I have just 
read, makes me very unhajipy. Almost " blind 
and wholly deaf," are melancholy news of hu- 
man nature ; but when told of a much loved 
and honoured friend, they carry misery in the 
tound. Goodness on your part, and gratitude 
on mine, began a tie, which has gradually and 
•trongly entwisted itself among the dearest 
chords of my bosom ; and I tremble at the 
omens of your late^and present ailing habits 
and shattered health. You miscalculate mat- 
ter* widely, when you forbid my waiting on 
you, lest it should hurt my worldly concerns. 
My small scale of farming is exceedingly more 
simple and easy than what you have lately 
seen at Moreham Mains, But be that as it 
may, the heart of the man, and the fancy of 
the poet, are the two grand considerations for 
which I live : if miry ridges, and dirty dung- 
hills are to engross the best part of the func- 
tions of my soul immortal, I had better been a 
rook or a magpie at once, and then I should 
not have been plagued with any ideas superior 
to breaking of clods, and picking up grubs ; 
not to mention barn-door cocks or mallards, 
creatures with which I could almost exchange 
lives at any time. — U you continue so deaf, I 
am afraid a visit will be no great pleasure to 
either of us ; but if I hear you are got so well 
again as to be able to relish conversation, look 
you to it, Madam, for I will make my threaten- 
ings good : I am to be at the new-year-day fair 
of Ayr, and by all that is sacred in the world, 
friend, I will come and see you. 



Your meeting, which you so well describe, 
with your old schoolfellow and friend, was tru- 
ly interesting. Out upon the ways of the world ! 
—They spoil these " social offsprings of the 
lieart." Two veterans of the " men of the 
world" would have met, with little more heart- 
workings than two old hacks worn out on the 
road. Apropos, is not the Scotch phrase, 
" Auld lang syne," exceedingly expressive. 
There is an old song and tune which Ins often 
thrilled through my soul. You know I am an 
enthusiast in old Scotch songs. I shall give you 
the verses on the other sheet, as I suppose BIr. 
Ker will save you the postage.* 

Light be the turf on the breast of the Hea- 
ven-inspired poet who composed this glorious 
fragment ! There is more of the fire of native 
genius in it, than in half a dozen of modern 
English Bucchanalians. Now I am on my 



• Here follows the song of Auld lang *i"»f« 



hobby horse, I cannot lielp inserting two otlnH 
old stanzas, which please me mightily. 

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, 
An' fill it in a silver tassie. 

{See Songs p. 212.) 



No. era. 

TO A YOUNG LADY, 

WHO HAD HEARD HE HAD BEEN MAKIKO A. 
BALLAD ON UEB, ENCLOSING TUAX BAIAAIV 

MADABi, December, 1788. 

I UNDERSTAND my Very worthy neighbour, 
Mr. Riddel, has informed you that I have made 
you the subject of some verses. There is some- 
thing so provoking in the idea of being the bur- 
den of a ballad, that I do not think Job or 
Moses, though such patterns of patience and 
meekness, could have resisted the curiosity to 
know what that ballad was : so my worthy 
friend has done me a mischief, which I dare say 
he never intended ; and reduced me to the un- 
fortunate alternative of leaving your curiosity 
ungratified, or else disgusting you with foolish 
verses, the unfinished production of a random 
moment, and never meant to have met your ear. 
I have heard or read semewhere of a gentleman, 
who had some genius, much eccentricity, and 
very considerable dexterity with his pencil. In 
the accidental groups of life into which one is 
thrown, wherever this gentleman met with a 
character in a more than ordinary degree con- 
genial to his heart, he used to steal a sketch of 
the face, merely, he said, as a nota bene to point 
out the agreeable recollection to his memory. 
What this gentleman's pencil was to him, is my 
muse to me ; and the verses I do myself the 
honour to send you are a memento exactly of the 
same kind that he indulged in. 

It may be more owing to the fastidiousness 
of my caprice, than the delicacy of my taste, 
that I am so often tired, disgusted, and hurt 
with the insipidity, affectation, and pride of 
mankind, that when I meet with a person 
" after my own heart," I positively feel what 
an orthodox protectant would call a species of 
idolatry which acts on my fancy like inspira- 
tion, and 1 can no more desist rhyming on the 
impulse, than an /Eolian harp can refuse its 
tones to the streaming air. A distich or two 
would be the consequence, though the object 
which hit my fancy were grey-bearded age ; 
but where ray theme is youth and beauty, a 
young lady whose personal charms, wit, and 
sentiment, are equally striking and unaffected, 
by heavens ! though 1 had lived threescore years 
a married man, and threescore years before I 
was a married man, my imagination would hal- 
low the very idea j and I am truly sorry that 
the enclosed stanzas have done such poor justie* 
to such a subject. 



CORRBSPONDBNCE. 



811 



No. CIV. 
TO SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD. 

an, December, 1788. 

Mk. M'Kenzie^ in Mauchline, my very warm 
lad worthy friend, has informed me how much 
jwi are pleased to interest yourself in my fate 
M a man, and, (what to me is incomparably 
detrer) my fame aa a poet. I have, Sir, in one 
«r two instances, been patronized by those of 
your character in life, when I was introduced 

to their notice by friends to them, 

and honoured acquaintances to me; but you 
Urt the first gentleman in the country whrise 
benevolence and goodness of heaft has interest- 
ed him for me, unsolicited and unknown. I 
tm not master enough of the etiquette of these 
matters to know, i^or did I stay to inquire, 
whether formal duty biide, or cold propriety 
disallowed, my thanking you in this manner, as 
I am convinced, from the lijjht in which you 
kindly view me, that you will do mc the justice 
to believe this letter is not the manoeuvre of a 
needy, sharping author, fastening on those in 
upper life, who honour him with a little notice 
of him or his works. Indeed the situation of 
poets is generally such, to a proverb, as may, 
in some measure, palliate that prostitution of 
beart and talents they have at times been guilty 
of. I do not thiiik prodigality is, by an niean^:, 
a necessary concomitant of a poetic turn, but 
believe a careless, indolent inattention to econo- 
my, is almost inseparable from it ; then there 
must be in the heart of every bard of Nature's 
making, a certain mode!^t scnsil)i!ity, mixed 
with a kind of pride, that will ever keep liiui 
out of the way of those windfalls of fortune, 
which frequently light on hardy impuik'nce 
and foot-licking servility. It is not easy to 
imagine a more helpless state than his, whose 
poetic fancy unfits him fir the world, and whose 
character as a scholar, gives him some i)rctcn- 
■ions to the pollUsse of lift. — yet is as poor m 1 
am. 

For my part, I thank Heaven, my star has 
been kinder ; learning never elevated my ideas 
above the peasant's shed, and I have an inde- 
peudent fortune at the plough- tail. 

I was surprised to hear thit any one, who 
pretended in the least to the manners of the 
gentleman, should be so foolish, or worse, as to 
atoop to traduce the morals of such a one as I 
am, and so inhumanly cruel, too, us to meddle 
with that late most unfortunate, unha|)py purt 
of my »tory. With a tear of gratitude, 1 thank 
you. Sir, for the warmth with which you iuter- 
poted in behalf of my conduct I am, I ac- 
knowledge, too frequently the sport of whim, 
caprice, and passion — but reverence to God, 
and integrity to my fellow-creatures, I hope I 
shall ever preserve. I have no return. Sir, to 
make you for your goodness but one — a return 
which, I am persuaded, will not be unaccept- 
f k U ' t ht hooMt, warm wishes of a grateful 



heart for jonr happineas, and trciy ona of that 
lovely flock, who stand to yoa in a filial nla- 
tion. If ever calumny aim the poisoned shaft 
at them, may friendship be by to wan} tha 
blow! 



LETTERS, 1789. 

No. cv. 

F]10M MR. G. BURNS. 

DEAR BROTHER, Mossgiel, Ist Jan. 1789. 

I HAVE just finished my new-year's-day 
breakfast in the usual form, which naturally 
makes me call to mind the days of former years, 
and the society in which we used to begin 
them ; and when I look at our family vicissi- 
tudes, " through the dark postern of time long 
elapsed," I cannot help remarking to you, my 
dear brother, how good the God of Skasons 
is to us ; and that however some clouds may 
seem to lower over the portion of time before 
us, we have great reason to hope that all will 
turn out well. 

Your mother and sisters, with Robert the 
second, join me in the compliments of the sea- 
son to you and Jlrs. Burns, and beg you will 
remember us in the same manner to William, 
the first time you see him. 

I am, dear brother, yours, 

GILBERT BURNS. 



No. CVI. ^ 
TO JIRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, New-Year-Day Mnminff, 1789. 

This, ilear ^ludam, is a morning of wishes, 
and would to God that 1 came under the apos- 
tle James's description ! — the prayer of a righ- 
teous man availet/i much. In that case. Ma- 
dam, you should welcome in a year full of bles- 
sings ; every thing that obstructs or disturbs 
trinKjuillity and self-enjoyment, should be re- 
moved, and every pleasure that frail humanity 
can taste, should be yours. I own myself so 
little a Presbyterian, that I approve of set times 
and seasons of more than ordinary acts of devo- 
tion, for breaking in on that habituated routine 
of life and thought, which is so apt to reduce 
our existence to a kind of instinct, or even 
sometimes, and with some minds, to a state very 
Uttle superior to mere machinery. 

This day ; the first Suuday ol May | a brecsy, 
blue-skyed noon some time about the beginning, 
aud a hoary morning and calm sunny day about 
the end, of autumn ; these, time out of miod| 
hare been with ma a kind of holiday. 



ei 



822 



BURNS' WORKS. 



• I believe I owfe tliis to that glorious paper in 
the Spectator, "The Vision of Mirza ;" ti 
piece that struck my young fancy before I was 
capable of fixing an idea to a word of three syl- 
lables : " On the 5th day of the moon, which, 
according to the custom of my forefathers, I al- 
ways keep holt/, after having washed myself, 
and offered up my morning devotions, I ascend- 
ed the high hill of Bagdat, in order to pass the 
rest of the day in meditation and prayer." 

We know nothing, or next to nothing, of 
the substance or structure of our souls, sn can- 
not account for those seeming caprices, in them, 
that one should be particularly pissed with this 
thing, or struck with that, which, on minds of 
a different cast, makes no extraordinary im- 
pression. I have some favourite flowers in 
spring, among which are the mountain daisy, 
the hare-bell, the fox-glove, the wild-brier rose, 
the budding birch, and the hoary hawthorn, 
that I view and hang over with particular de- 
light, I never hear the loud, solitary whistle 
of the curlew, in a summer noon, or the wild 
mixing cadence of a troop of grey plover, in an 
autumnal morning, without feeling an elevation 
of soul like the enthusiasm of devotion or poe- 
try. Tell me, my dear friend, to what can this 
be owing ? Are we a piece of machinery, which, 
like the .ffiolian harp, passive, takes the impres- 
sion of the passing accident ? Or do these work- 
ings argue something within us above the trod- 
den clod ? I own myself partial to s'uch proofs 
of those awful and important realities — a God 
that made all things — man's immaterial and im- 
mortal nature — and a world of weal or woe be- 
yond death and the grave. 



No. CVII. 
FROM THE REV. P. CARFRAE, 

»IR, 2d January, 1789. 

If you have lately seen Mrs. Duulop, of 
Dunlop, you have certainly heard of the author 
of the verses which accompany this letter. He 
was a man highly respectable for every accora- 
plikhment and virtue which adorns the charac- 
ter of a man or a Christian. To a great de- 
gree of literature, of taste, and poetic genius, 
was added an invincible modesty of temper, 
which prevented, in a great degree, his figuring 
in life, and confined the perfect knowledge of 
his character and talents to the smalf circle of 
Lis chosen friends. He was untimely taken 
from us, a few weeks ago, by an inflammatory 
fever, in the prime of life — beloved by all, who 
enjoyed his acquaintance, and lamented by all, 
who have any regard for virtue or genius. There 
u a woe pronounced in Scripture against the 
penou whom ftll pien speak well of j if ever 



that woe fell upon the head of mortaT man, it 
fell upon liini. He has left behind him a con- 
siderable number of compositions, chiefly poeti- 
cal; Bufiicient, I imagine, to make a large oc- 
tavo volume. In particular, two complete and 
regular tragedies, a farce of three acts, and some 
smaller poems on different subjects. It faljs to 
my share, who have lived in the most intimata 
and uninterrupted friendship with him from my 
youth upwards, to transmit to you the verses he 
wrote on the publication of your incomparable 
poems. It is jirobable they were his last, as 
they were found in his scrutoire, folded up with 
the form of a letter addressed to you, and I im- 
agine, were only prevented from being sent by 
himself, by that melancholy dispensation which 
we still bemoan. The verses themselves I will 
not pretend to criticise when writing to a gen- 
tleman whom I consider as entirely qualified to 
judge of their merit. They are the only verses 
he seems 'to have attempted in the Scottish 
style ; and I hesitate not to say, in general, that 
they will bring no dishonour on the Scottish 
nuise ; — and allow me to add, that if it is your 
opinion they are not unworthy of the author, 
aud will be no discredit to you, it is the incli- 
nation of Mr. Mylne's friends that they should 
be immediately published in some periodical 
work, to give the world a specimen of what 
may be expected from his performances in the 
poetic line, which, perhaps, will be afterwards 
published for the advantage of his family. 



I must beg the favour of a letter from yon, 
acknowledging the receipt of this, and to bo 
allowed to subscribe myself with great regai'd« 
Sir, your most obedient servant, 

P. C . 



No. CVIII. 



TO DR. MOORE. 



Ellisland, near Dumfries, 4th Jan. 1789. 

SIR, 

As often as I think of writing to you, whica 
has been three or four times cverv week these 
six motiths, it gives me something so like the 
idea of an ordinary-sized statue offering at a con- 
versation with the Rhodian Colossus, that my 
mind misgives me, and the affair always miscar- 
ries somewhere between purpose and resolve. I 
have, at last, got some business with you, and 
business-letters are written by the style-book. — 
I say my business is with you. Sir, for you never 
had any with me, except the business that bene- 
volence has in the mansion of poverty. 

The character and employment of a poet 
were formerly my pleasure, but are now jny 
pride. I know that a very great deal of roy 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



dss 



Ute eclat was owing to tke singularity of ray 
•ituation, and the honest prejudice of Scotsmen ; 
but still, as I said in the preface to my first edi- 
tion, I do look upon myself as having some pre- 
tensions from Nature to the poetic character. 
itave not a doubt but the knack, the aptitude, to 
•cam the Muses' trade, is a gift bestowed by 
Him " who forms the secret bias of the soul ;" 
—but as I firmly believe, that excellence in the 
profession is the fruit of industry, labour, attea 
tion, and pains. At least I am resolved to try 
my doctrine by the test of experience. Another 
appearance from the press I put off to a very 
distant day, a day that may never arrive — but 
poesy I am determined to prosecute with all my 
vigour. Nature has given very few, if any, of 
the profession, the talents of shining in every 
species of composition. I shall try (for until 
trial it is impossible to know), whether she has 
qualified me to shine in any one. The worst of 
it is, by the time one has finished a piece, it has 
been so often viewed and reviewed before the 
mental eye, that one loses, in a good measure, 
the powers of critical discrimination. Here the 
best criterion I know is a friend — ^not only of 
abilities to judge, but with good nature enough, 
like a prudent teacher with a young learner, to 
praise perhaps a little more than is exactly just, 
lait the thin-skinned animal fall into that moat 
deplorable of all poetic diseases — heart-breaking 
despondency of himself. Dare I, Sir, already 
immensely indebted to your goodness, ask the 
additional obligation of your being that friend to 
me ? I enclose you an essay of mine, in a walk 
of poesy to me entirely new ; I mean the epistle 
addressed to R. G., Esq., or Robert Graham, of 
Fintry, Esq., a gentleman of uncommon worth, 
to whom I lie under very great obligations. The 
•tory of the poem, like most of my poems, is 
connected with my own story, and to give you 
the one, I must give you something of the other. 
I cannot boast of 



1 believe I shall, in whole, L.lOO copy-right 
included, clear about L.400 some little odds ; 
and even part of this depends upon what the 
gentleman has yet to settle with me. I give 
you this information, because you did me the 
honour to interest yourself much in my welfare. 



To give the rest of my story in brieii I have 
married " my Jean," and taken a farm ; with 
the first step I have every day more and more 
reason to be satisfied ; with the last, it is rather 
the reverse. I have a younger brother, who 
supports my aged mother ; another still younger 
brother, and three sisters, in a farm. On my 
last return from Edinburgh, it cost me about 
L.180 to save them from ruin. Not that I 
have lost so much — I only inftrposed between 
my brother and his impending fate by the loan 



of 80 much. I give myself no airs on this, for 
it was mere selfishness on my part ; I was con- 
scious that the vrrong scale of the balance waa 
pretty heavily charged, and I thought that 
throwing a little filial piety, and fraternal affec- 
tion, into the scale in my favour, might help to 
smooth matters at the grand reckoning. There 
is still one thing would make my circumstances 
quite easy ; I have an excise officer's commis- 
sion, and I live in the midst of a country divi- 
sion. Jly request to Mr. Graham, who is one 
of the commissioners of excise, was, if in his 
power, to procure me that division. If I were 
very sanguine, I might hope that some of my 
great patrons might procure me a treasury war- 
rant for supervisor, surveyor .general, &c. 



Thus secure of a livelihood, " to thee, iwect 
poetry, delightful maid," I would consecrate my 
future days. 



No. CIX. 



TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 

Ettiiland, Jan. 6, 1789. 

Many happy returns of the season to you, 
my dear Sir ! May you be comparatively happy 
up to your comparative worth among the sons 
of men ; which wish would, I am sure, make 
you one of the most blest of the human race. 

I do not know if passing a " Writer to the 
Signet" be a trial of scientific merit, or a mere 
business of friends and interest. However it be, 
let me quote you my two favourite passages, 
which though I have repeated them ten thou- 
sand times, still they rouse my manhood and 
steel my resolution like inspiration. 

On Reason build resolve. 



That column of true majesty in man. 

YooKQ. 

Hear, Alfred, hero of the state. 

Thy genius heaven's high will declare ; 

The triumph of the truly g^eat 

Is never, never to despair ! 

Is never to despair ! 

Masqdk of Alfrid. 

I grant you enter the lists of life, to struggle 
for bread, business, notice, and distinction, in 
commoa with hundreds. — But who are they ? 
Men, like yoorself, and of that aggregate body, 
your compeers, seven-tenths of them come short 
of your advantages natural and accidental ; while 
two of those that remain either neglect their 
parts, as flowers blooming in a de«<ert, or mis- 
spend their strength, like a bull goring a bram« 
ble bush. 



iW 



BURNS' WORKS. 



But to change the tlieme : I am still catering 
for Johnson's publication ; and among others, 
I have brushed up the following old favourite 
song a little, with a view to your worship. I 
^ave only altered a word here a.nd there ; but if 
you like the humour of it, we shall think of a 
stanza or two to add to it. 



No. ex. 



TO BISHOP GEDDES. 
EUhland, near JDumfries, 3d Feb. 1789. 

VENERABLE FATHER, 

As I am conscious that wherever I am you do 
me the honour to interest yourself in my wel- 
fare, it gives me pleasure to inform you, that I 
am here at last, stationary in the serious busi- 
ness of life, and have now not only the retired 
leisure, but the hearty inclination, to attend to 
those great and important questions-^what I 
am ? where I am ? and for what I am destined ? 

In that first concern, the conduct of the man, 
there was ever but one side on which I was 
habitually blameable, and there I have secured 
myself in the way pointed out by Nature and 
Nature's God. I was sensible that, to so help- 
less a creature as a poor poet, a wife and family 
were incumbrances, which a species of prudence 
would bid him shun ; but when the alternative 
was, being at eternal warfare with myself, on 
account of habitual fellies, to give them no worse 
Dame, which no general example, no licentious 
wit, no sophistical infidelity would, to me, ever 
justify, I must have been a fool to have hesitat- 
ed, and a madman to have made another choice. 



corrections of years can enable rae to produce 
something worth preserving. 

You will see in your book, which I beg your 
pardon for detaining so long, that I have been 
tuning my lyre on the banks of Nitb. Some 
larger poetic plans that are floating in my ima- 
gination, or partly put in execution, I shall im- 
part to you when I have the pleasure of meet- 
ing with you, which, if you are then in Edin- 
burgh, I shall have about the beginning of 
March. 

That acquaintance, worthy Sir, with which 
you were pleased to honour me, you must still 
allow rae to challenge ; for with whatever un- 
concern I give up my transient connection with 
the merely great, I cannot lose the patronizing 
notice of the learned and the good, without the 
bitterest regret. 



No. CXI. 



In the affair of a livelihood, I think myself 
tolerably secure : I have good hopes of my 
farm ; but should they fail, I have an excise 
commission, which on my simple petition, will, 
at any time, procure me bread. There is a cer- 
tain stigma affixed to the character of an excise 
officer, but I do not intend to borrow honour 
from any profession ; and though the salary be 
comparatively small, it is great to any thing 
that the first twenty-five years of my life taught 
me to expect. 



Thus, with a rational aim and method in life, 
you may easily guess, my reverend and much- 
honoured friend, that my characteristical trade 
is not forgotten. I am, if possible, more than 
ever an enthusiast to the muses. I am deter- 
mined to study man and nature, and in that 
view incessantly ; and to try if the ripening and 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

EUhland, ith March, 1789. 
Here am I, my honoured friend, returned safe 
from the capital. To a man, who has a home, 
however humble or remote — if that home is like 
mine, the scene of domestic comfort — the bustle 
of Edinburgh will soon be a business of sicken- 
ing; disgust. 

" Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate you ! " 

Wlien I must skulk into a corner, lest the 
rattling equipage of some gaping blockhead 
should mangle me in the mire, I am tempted 
to exclaim — " what merits has he had, or what 
demerit have I had, in some state of pre-existence, 
that he is ushered into this state of being with 
the sceptre of rule, and the key of riches, in his 
puny fist, and I am kicked into the world, the 
sport of folly, or the victim of pride ?" I have 
read somewhere of a monarch (in Spain I think 
it was), who was so out of humour with the 
Ptolemean system of astronomy, that he said, 
had he been of the Creator's council, he could 
have saved him a great deal of labour and ab- 
surdity. I will not defend this blasphemous 
speech ; but often, as I have glided with humble 
stealth through the pomp of Prince's Street, it 
has suggested itself to me, as an improvement 
on the present human figure, that a man, in 
proportion to bis own conceit of his consequence 
in the world, could have pushed out the longi- 
tude of his common size, as a snail pushes out 
his horns, or as we draw out a perspective. 
This trifling alteration, not to mention the pro- 
digious saving it would be in the tear and wear 
of the neck and limb-sinews of many of his Ma- 
jesty's liege subjects in the way of tossing the 
head and tiptog strutting, would evidently turn 
out a vast advantage, in enabling oi at oaee to 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



335 



tdjuit the ceremonials in making a bow, or 
making way to a great man, and that too within 
a Mcond of the precise spherical angle of revu- 
redce, or an inch of the particular point of re- 
spectful distance, which the important creature 
itself requires ; as a measuring-glance at its 
towering altitude would determine the affair like 
instinct. 

You are right, Madam, in your idea of poor 
Mylne's poem, which he has addressed to me 
The piece has a good deal of merit, but it has 
one great fault — it is, by far, too long. Be- 
sides, my success has encouraged such a shoal 
of ill-spawned monsters to crawl into public 
notice, under the title of Scottish Poets, that 
the very term of Scottish Poetry borders on 
the burlesque. When I write to Mr. C — 
I shall advise him rather to try one of his de- 
ceased friend's English pieces. I am prodigi- 
ously hurried with my own matters, else I 
would have requested a perusal of all Mylne's 
poetic performances ; and would have offered 
his friends my assistance in either selecting or 
correcting what would be proper for the press. 
What it is that occupies me so much, and per- 
haps a little oppresses my present spirits, shall 
fill up a paragraph in some future letter. In 
the meantime allow me to close this epistle with 
a few lines done by a friend of mine • . . 
, . I give you them, that as you have seen 
the original, you may guess whether one or two 
alterations I have ventured to make in them, be 
- any real improvement. 

Like the fair plant that from our touch with- 
draws. 
Shrink mildly fearful even from applause, 
Be all a mother's fondest hope can dream, 

And all you are, my charming , seem. 

Straight as the fox-glove, ere her bells disclose, 
Mild as the maiden-blushing hawthorn blows, 
Fair as the fairest of each lovely kind. 
Your form shall be the image of your mind : 
Your manners shall so true your soul express. 
That all shall long to know the worth they 

guess ; 
Congenial hearts shall greet with kindred love, 
And even siuk'uiog envy must approve.* 



/ No. CXIL 

LETTER FROM WILLI AIM BURNS, THE 
POET'S BROTHER. 

[This and three letters which follow hereafter, are 
the genuine and artless productions of the poet's 
younger Brother, William Burns, a young 
man, who after having served an apprentice- 
ship to the trade of a Saddler, took his load 



• 'Ihete beautiful lines, we have reason to believe, 
are the production of the lady to whom this letter it 
adressed. 



towards the South, and having resided a 
short time at Newcastle-upon-Tyne, arrived 
in London, where he died of a putrid fever 
in the year 1790.] 

DEAR SIR, Longtown, Feb. 15, 1789. 

As I am now in a manner only entering into 
the world, I begin this our correspondence, with 
a view of being a gainer by your advice, more 
than ever you can be by any thing I can write 
you of what I see, or what I hear, in the course 
of my wanderings. I know not how it hap- 
pened, but you were more shy of your counsel 
than I could have wished the time I staid with 
you : whether it was because you thought it 
would disgust me to have my faults freely told 
me while I was dependant on you ; or whether 
it was because you saw that by my indolent dis- 
position, your instructions would have no effect^^ 
I cannot determine ; but if it proceeded from 
any of the above causes, the reason of withholdiug 
your admonition is now dune away, for I now 
stand on my own bottom, and that indolence, 
which I am very conscious of, is something 
rubbed off, by being called to act in life whether 
I will or not ; and ray inexperience, which I 
daily feel, makes me wish for that advice which 
you are so able to give, and which I can only 
expect from you or Gilbeit since the loss of the 
kindest and ablest of fathers. 

The morning after I went from the Isle, I 
left Dumfries about five o'clock and came to 
Annan to breakfast, und staid about an hour ; 
and I reached this place about two o'clock. I 
have got work here, and I intend to stay a month 
or six weeks, and then go forward, as I wish to 
be at York about the latter end of summer, 
where I propose to spend next winter, and go 
on for London in the spring. 

I have the promise of seven shillings a week 
from Sir. Proctor while I stay here, and six- 
pence more if he succeeds himself, for he has 
only new begun trade here. I am to pay four 
shillings per week of board wages, so that my 
neat income here will be much the same as in 
Dumfries. 

The enclosed you will send to Gilbert with 
the first opportunity. Please send me the first 
Wednesday after you receive this, by the Car- 
lisle waggon, two of my coarse shirts, one of 
my best linen ones, my velveteen vest, and a 
neckcloth ; write to me along with them, and 
direct to me, Saddler, in Longtown, and they 
will not miscarry, for I am boarded in the 
waggoner's house. You may either let them 
be given in to the wagijon, or send them to 
Coulthard and Gellebourn's shop and they will 
forward them. Pray write me often while I 
stav here. — I wish you would send me a letter, 
though never so small, every week, for thejr 
will be no expense to me, and but little trouble 
to vou. Please to give my best wishes to my sis- 
ter-in-law, and believe me to be your affectionate 
And obliged Brother, 

W1LLI.\M BURNS. 



326 



BURNS' WORKS. 



p. S. Tie great coat you gave me at parting 
did me singular service the day I came here, and 
merits my hearty thanks. From what has been 
said the conclusion is this ; that my hearty 
thanks and my beet wishes are all that you and 
my sister must expect from 

W. B. 



No. CXIII. 
TO THE REV. P. CARFRAE. 

HKVKREKS SIR, 1789. 

I DO not recollect that I have ever felt a se- 
verer pang of shame, than on looking at the 
date of your obliging letter, which accompanied 
Mr. Mylne's poem. 



I am much to blame : the honour Mr. Mylne 
has done me, greatly enhanced in its value by 
the endearing, though melancholy circumstance, 
of its being the last production of his muse, de- 
served a better return. 

I have, as you hint, thought of sending a 
copy of the poem to some periodical publica- 
tion ; but, on second thoughts, I am afiraid 
that, in the present case, it would be an im- 
proper step. My success, perhaps as much ac- 
cidental as merited, has brought an inundation 
of nonsense under the name of Scottish poetry. 
Subscription-bills for Scottish poems have so 
dunned, and daily do dun the public, that the 
very name is in danger of contempt. For these 
reasons, if publishing any of Mr. M.'s poems in 
a magiizine, &c. be at all prudent, in my opinion 
it certainly should not be a Scottish poem. The 
profits of the labours of a man of genius, are, I 
hope, as honourable as any profits whatever ; 
and Mr. Mylne's relations are most justly en- 
titled to that honest harvest, which fate has de- 
nied himself to reap. But let the friends of Mr. 
Mylne's fame (among whom I crave the honour 
of ranking myself), always keep in eye his re- 
spectability as a man and as a poet, and take no 
measure that, before the world knows any thing 
about him, would risk his name and character 
being classed with the fools of the times. 

I have. Sir, some experience of publishing ; 
and the way in which I would proceed with 
Mr. Mylne's poems, is this : — I would publish, 
in two or three English and Scottish public 
papers, any one of his English poems which 
should, by private judges, be thought the most 
excellent, and mention it at the same time, as 
one of the productions of a Lothian farmer, of 
respectable character, lately deceased, whose 
poems his friends had it in idea to publish soon, 
by snbscription, for the sake of his numerous 
family : — not in pity to that family, but in jus 
ticie to what his friends think the poetic merits 



of the deceased ; and to secure, in the most ef 
fectual manner, to those tender connections, 
whose right it is, the pecuniary reward of thoea 
merits. 



No. CXIV. 

TO DR. MOORE. 

SIR, Ellisland, 9,Sd March, 1789. 

The gentleman who will deliver you this is s 
Mr. Niclson, a worthy clergyman in my neigh- 
bourhood, and a very particular acquaintance of 
mine. As I have troubled him with this packet, 
I must turn him over to your goodness, to re- 
compense him for it in a way in which he much 
needs your assistance, and where you can effec> 
tually serve him : — Mr. Nielson is on his way 
for France, to wait on his Grace of Queensberry, 
on some little business of a good deal of impor- 
tance to him, and he wishes for your instruc- 
tions respecting the most eligible mode of tra- 
velling, &c. for him, when he has crossed the 
Channel. I should not have dared to take this 
liberty with you, but that I am told, by those 
who have the honour of your personal acquaint- 
ance, that to be a poor honest Scotchman is a 
letter of recommendation to you, and that to 
have it in your power to serve such a obaracter, 
gives you much pleasure. 



The enclosed ode is a compliment to the me- 
mory of the late Mrs. , of . You 

probably knew her personally, an honour of 
which I cannot boast ; but I spent my early 
years in her neighbourhood, and among her 
servants and tenants. I know that she was de- 
tested with the most heartfelt cordiality. How- 
ever, in the particular part of her conduct which 
roused my poetic wrath, she was much less 
blameable. In January last, on my road to 
Ayrshire, I had put up at Bailie Wigham's ia 
Sanquhar, the only tolerable inn in the place. 
The frost was keen, and the grim evening and 
howling wind were usheiing in a night of snow 
and drift. My horse and I were both much 
fatigued with the labours of the day, and just as 
ray friend the Bailie and I were bidding defiance 
to the storm, over a smoking bowl, in wheels 
the funeral pageantry of the late great Mrs. 
, and poor I am forced to brave all the 



horrors of the tempestuous night, and jade my 
horse, my young favourite horse, whom I had 
just christened Pegasus, twelve miles farther 
on, through the wildest muirs and hills of Ayr- 
shire, to New Cumnock, the next inn. The 
powers of poesy and prose sink under me, when 
I would describe what I felt. Suffice it to say, 
that when a good fire, at New Cumnock, had 
so far recovered my frozen sinews, I sat dowa 
and wrote the enclosed ode. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



827 



I was at Edinburgh lately, and settled finally 
with Mr. Creech ; aud I must own, that, at 
V»t, Le has been amicable and fair with me. 



No. CXV. 
TO MR. PETER HILL. 

ElUsland, 2d April, 1789. 
I WILL make no excuses, my dear Bibliopo- 
luB, (God forgive me for murdering language !) 
that I have sat down to write you on this vile 
paper. 



It is economy, Sir ; it is that cardinal virtue, 
prudence ; so I beg you will sit down, and 
either compose or borrow a panegyric. If you 
are going to borrow, apply to 



the glorious cause of Locre, I will do any thing, 
be any thing— but the horse-leech of private 
oppression, or the vulture of public robbery ! 



But to descend from heroics. 



to compose, or rather to compound, something 
very clever on my remarkable frugality ; that I 
write to one of my most eiteemed friends on 
this wretched paper, which was originally in 
tended for the venai fist of some drunken ex- 
ciseman, to take dirty notes in a miserable vault 
of an ale-cellar. 

O Frugality ! thou mother of ten thousand 
blessings — thou cook of fat lieef and dainty 
greens ! — thou manufacturer of warm Shetland 
hose, and comfortable surtouts ! — thou old 
housewife, darning thy decayed stockiogs with 
thy ancient spectacles on thy aged nose ; — lead 
me, hand me in thy clutching palsied fist, up 
those heights, and through those thickets, hi- 
therto inaccessible, and impervious to my anxi- 
ous weary feet : — not those Parnassian craggs, 
bleak and barren, where the hungry worship- 
pers of fame are, breathless, clambering, hang- 
ing between heaven and hell ; but those glitter- 
ing cliffs of Potosi, where the all-sufficient, all- 
powerful deity, Wealth, holds his immediate 
court of joys and pleasures ; where the sunny 
exposure of plenty, and the hot walls of profu- 
sion, produce those blissful fruits of luxury, 
exotics in this world, and natives of paradise ! — 
Thou withered sybil, my sage conductress, usher 
me into the refulgent, adored presence ! — The 
power, splendid and potent as he now is, was 
once the puling nursling of thy faithful care, 
and tender arms ! Call me thy son, thy cousin, 
thy kinsman, or favourite, and adjure the god, 
by the scenes of his infant years, no longer to 
repulse me as a stranger, or an alien, but to fa- 
vour me with his peculiar countenance and pro- 
tection ! He daily bestows his greatest kindness 
on the undeserving and the worthless — assure 
him, that I bring ample documents of meritori 



I want a Shakspeare ; I want likewise an Eng • 
lish dictionary— Johnson's, I suppose, is best 
la these and all my prose commissions, the 
cheapest is always the best for me. There is 
a small debt of honour that I owe Mr. Robert 
Cleghorn, in Saughton Jlills, my worthy friend, 
and your well-wisher. Please give him, and 
urge him to take it, the first time you see him, 
ten shillings worth of any thing you have to 
sell, aud place it to my account. 

The library scheme that I mentioned to you 
is already begun, under the direction of Captaia 
Riddel. There is another in emulation of it go- 
ing on at Closeburn, under the auspices of Mr. 
Monteith, of Closeburn, which will be on a 
greater scale than ours. Captain R. gave hi» 
infant society a great many of his old books, 
else I had written you on that subject ; but, 
one of these days, I shall trouble you with a 
commission for " The Monkland Friendly So- 
ciety" — a copy of The Spectator, Mirror, and 
Lounger j Man of Feeling, Man of the World, 
Guthrie's Geographical Grammar, with some 
religious pieces, will likely be our first order. 

When I grow richer, 1 will write to you on 
gilt post, to make amends for this sheet. At 
present, every guinea has a five-guinea errand 
with 

My dear Sir, 
Your faithful, poor, but honest friend, 
R. B. 



No. CXVI. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

EUisland, Std April, 1789. 



I NO sooner hit on any poetic plan or fancy, 
but I wish to send it to you ; and if knowing 
and reading these give half the pleasure to you^ 
that communicating them to you gives to me, 
I am satisfied. 



eu8 demerits ' Pledge yourself for me, that, for lows :^ 



I have a poetic whim in my head, which I 
at present dedicate, or rather inscribe, to the 
Right Hon. C. J. Fox ; but how long that 
fancy may hold, I cannot say. A few of the 
first lines 1 have just rough-sketched, as foU 



BORNBT WOBK& 



SKETCH OF OL J. FOX. 

How witdom and fbll^ meet, mix, and unite ; 
How virtue and vice blend their black and their 

white ; 
How gen"u8, th* illustrious father of fiction, 
Confounds rule and law, reconciles contradic- 

tion — 
I sing : if these mortals, the critics, should 

bustle, 
I care not, not I, let the critics go whistle. 

But now for a patron, whose name and whose 

glory, 
At once may illustrate and honour ray story. 

Thou first of our orators, first of our wits ; 
Yet whose parts and acquirements seem mere 

lucky hits ; 
With knowledge so vast, and with judgment so 

strong, 
No man with the half of 'em e'er wont far 

wrong ; 
With passions so potent, and fancies so bright, 
No man with the half of 'em e'er went quite right ; 
A sorry, pcior misbcgot son of the muses, 
For using thy name offers fifty excuses. 

Good L — d, what is man ! for as simple he 

looks, 

Do but try to develope his hooks and his crooks ; 
With his depths and his shallows, his good and 

his evil, 
All in all he's a problem must puzzle the devil. 

On his one ruling passion Sir Pope hugely 

labotirs, 
That like the old Hebrew walking-switch, eats 

up its neighbours : 
Mankind are his ihow-box — a friend, would you 

know him ? 
Pull the string, ruling passion, the picture will 

show him. 
What pity, in rearing so beauteous a system. 
One trifling particular, truth, should have miss'd 

him ; 
For, spite of his fine theoretic positions, 
Mankind is a science defies definitions. 

Some sort all our qualities each to its tribe, 
And think human nature they truly descriiie ; 
Have you found this, or t'other ? there's more 

in the wind, 
Ai by one drunken fellow his comrades you'll 

find. 
But such is the flaw, or the depth of the plan, 
In the make of that wonderful creature call'd 

Man. 
No two virtues, whatever relation they claim. 
Nor even two different shades of the same, 
Though like as was ever twin brother to brother, 
Possessing the one shall imply you've the other. 



On the 20th current I hope to have the ho- 
nour of oasuring you, in person, how liacerely 
Itm, 



Vo, cxTn. 

TO SIR. CUNNINGHASL 

H7 DEAR SIR, ElUsland, ith May, 1789. 

You R duty free favour of the 26th April I 
received two days ago : I will not say I peru- 
sed it with pleasure ; that is the cold compli- 
ment of ceremony ; I perused it, Sir, with deli- 
cious satisfaction Tn short, it is such a letter, 

that not you, nor your friend, but the legisla- 
ture, by express proviso in their postage laws, 
shrfiild frank. A letter informed with the soul 
of friendship, is such an honour to human na- 
ture, that they should order it free ingress and 
egress to and from their bags, and mails, as an 
encouragement and mark of distinction to su- 
per-eminent virtue. 

I have just put the last hand to a little poem 
which I tLiink will be something to your taste. 
One morning lately as I was out pretty early 
in the fields sowing some grass seeds, I heard 
the burst of a shot from a neighbouring plan- 
tation, and presently a i)onr little wounded hard 
came cri])pling by me.' You will guess my in- 
digiiation at the inhuman fellow who could 
shoot a hare at this season, when they all of 
them have young ones. Indeed there is some- 
thing iu that business of destroying, for our 
sport, individuals in the animal creation that 
do not injure us materially, which I could never 
reconcile to tay ideas of virtue. 

( See Poetry.) 

Lot me know how you like my poem. I am 
doubtful whether it would not be an improve* 
nient to keep out the last stanza but one alto- 
gether. 

C— — is a glorious production of the author 
of man. You, he, and tlie noble Colonel of the 
C F arc, to me, 

" Dear as the ruddy drops which warm my 
breast." 

I have a good mind to make verses on you all, 
to the tuue of '• three good fellows ayont the 
ylen." 



No. CXVIII. 

The poem, in the preceding letter, had also 
been sent by our bard to Dr. Gregory for hit 
criticism. The following is that gentleman's 
reply. 

FROM DR. GREGORY. 

DKAR SIR, Edinburgh, 2d June, 1789. 

I TAKE the first leisure hour I could command, 
to thank you for your letter, and the copy <d 
rcnei encloied in it. As thcr« is rssl pwtio 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



SS0 



ImtH^ X mttA \oik hnej, ud tenderoesi, and 
■oiM htppjr exprcMions, in them, I think they 
well dwerre that you should revise them, care- 
tMf and polish them to the utmost. This I am 
lure you can do if you please, for you have great 
eommand both of expression and of rhymes : and 
jou may judge from the two last pieces of Mrs. 
Hunter's poetry, that I gave you, how much 
eorrectness and high polish enhance the value of 
luch compositions. As you desire it, I shall, 
with great freedom, give you my most rigorous 
criticisms on your verses. I wish you would 
give me another edition of them, much amend- 
ed, and I will send it to Mrs. Hunter, who, I 
am sure, will have much pleasure in reading it. 
Pray, give me likewise for myself, and her too. 
It copy (as much amended as you please) of the 
Water Fowl on Loch Turit. 

The Wounded Hare is a pretty good subject ; 
but the measure, or stanza, you have chosen for 
it, is not a good one ; it does not flow well ; 
and the rhyme of the fourth line is almost lost 
by its distance from the first ; and the two in- 
terposed, close rhymes. If I were you, I would 
put it into a different stanza yet. 

Stanza 1.— The execrations in the first two 
lines are strong or coarse ; but they may pass. 
" Murder -aiming" is a bad compound epithet, 
and not very intelligible. " Blood-stained," in 
stanza iii. line 4, has the same fault : Bleeding 
bosom is infinitely better. You have accustom- 
ed yourself to such epithets, and have no notion 
how stiff and quaint they appear to others, and 
how incongruous with poetic fancy, and tender 
sentiments. Suppose Pope had written, " Why 
that blood-stained bosom gored," how would you 
have liked it ? Form is neither a poetic, nor a 
dignified, nor a plain, common word : it is a 
mere sportsman's word ; unsuitable to petthetic 
or serious poetry. 

" Mangled" is a coarse word. " Innocent," 
in this sense, is a nursery word ; but both may 
pus. 

Stanza 4. — " Who will now provide that life 
a mother only can bestow," will not do at all : 
it is not grammar — it is not intelligible. Do 
you mean " provide for that life which the mo- 
ther had bestowed and used to provide for ?" 

There was a ridiculous slip of the pen, 
" Feeling" (I suppose) for " Fellow," in the 
title of your copy of verses ; but even fellow 
would be wrong : it is but a colloquial and vul- 
gar word, unsuitable to your sentiments. " Shot" 
is improper too. — On seeing a person (or a 
sportsman) wound a hare ; it is needless to add 
with what weapon ; but if you think otherwise, 
joa should say, with a fowling-piece. 

Let me te6 you when you come to town, and 
I will show you some more of Mrs. Hunter's 
poems.* 



• It must be admitted, that this criticism is not 
mere distinguished by its good sense, than by its frce- 
^m from ceremony. It is impossible not to smile at 
the manner in which the poet may be supposed to have 
wl w < it. la tact It appean, ai the sailors say, to 



No. CXIX. 



TO MR. JAMES HAMILTON, 

QROCZB, OtASOOW. 

DEAR SIR, ElUsland, May, 26, 1789. 

I SKND you by John Glover, carrier, thff 
above account for Mr. Turnbull, as I suppose 
you know his address. 

I would fain offer, my dear Sir, a word of 
sympathy with your misfortunes ; but it is a 
tender string, and I know not how to touch it. 
It is easy to flourish a set of high-flown sentiments 
on the subject that would give great satisfaction 
to — a breast quite at ease ; but as one observes, 
who was very seldom mistaken in the theory of 
life, " The heart knoweth its own sorrows, and 
a stranger intermeddleth not therewith." 

Among some distressful emergencies that I 
have experienced in life, I have ever laid this 
down as my foundation of comfort — That ht 
he who has lived the life of an honest man, has 
by no means lived in vain I 

With every wish for your welfare and fiitnre 
success, 

I am, my dear Sir, 

Sincerely yonrs. 



No. CXX. 
TO WM. CREECH, Esq. 

SIR, ElUsland, May SO, 1789. 

I HAD intended to have troubled you with a 
long letter, but at present the delightful sensa- 
tions of an omnipotent toothach so engross all 
my inner man, as to put it out of my power 
even to write nonsense. — However, as in duty 
bound, I approach my bookseller with an offer- 
ing in my hand — i few poetic clinches and a 
song : — To expect any other kind of offering 
from the rhymiko tribe, would be to know 
them much kss than you do. I do not pretend 
that there is much merit in these morceaux, but 
I have two reasons for sending them ; prima, 
they are mostly ill-natureil, so are in unison with 
my present feelings, while fifty troops of infer- 
nal spirits are driving post from ear to ear along 
my jaw-bones ; and secondly, they are so short, 
that you cannot leave off in the middle, and so 
hurt my pride in the idea that you found any 
work of mine too heavy to get through. 

I have a request to beg of you, and I not on- 
ly beg of you, but conjure you — by all your 
wishes and by all your hopes, that the muse 



have thrown him quite a-back. In a letter which ha 

wrotesoon after, hesays, " Dr. O is agood man, 

but he crucifies me." — And again, " I believe iu the 

iron Justice of Dr. G ; out lilic the devils, I b*. 

licve and tremble." However, he profiled by thcM 
criticisms, as the reader will find, by comparing this 
first edition of the poem, with that published aftax . 
wards. 



330 



BURNS' WORKS. 



will spare the satiric \viuk ia the moment of 
your foibles ; that she will warble the song of 
rapture round your hymeneal couch ; and that 
■he will shed on your turf the honest tear of 
elegiac gratitude ! grant my request as speedily 
as possible — Send me by the very first fly or 
coach for this place, three copies of the last edi- 
tion of my poems ; which place to my account. 
Now, may the good things of prose, and the 
good things of verse, come among thy bands 
until they be filled with the good things of^.his 
Vfe! prayeth 

robt, burns. 



No. CXXI. 
TO MR. M'AULEY, 

OK DUStBARTOX. 

BEAU siK, 4-i/i June, 1789. 

Though I am not without my fears respect- 
ing my fate at that grand, universal inquest of 
right and wrong, commonly called The Last 
Day, yet I trust there is one sin, which that 
arch-va<);abond, Satan, who, I understand, is to 
be king's evidence, cannot throw in my teeth 
— I mean ingratitude. There is a certain pret- 
ty large quantum of kindness for which I re- 
main, and from inability, I feur, must remain 
your"debtor ; but though unable to repay the 
debt, I assure yon, .Sir, I shall ever warmly re- 
member the oiiligatiou. It gives me the sin- 
cerest pleasure to hear by my old acquaintance, 
Mr. Kennedy, that you are, in immortal Allan's 
language, " Hale and weel, and living ;" and 
that yonr charming family are well, and promis- 
ing to be an amiable and respectable addition to 
the company of performers, whom the Great 
Manager of the Drama of Man is bringing into 
action for the succeeding age. 

With respect to my welfare, a subject in 
which you once warmly and effectively interest 
ed yourself, I am here in my old way, holding 
my plough, marking the growth of my corn, or 
the health of my dairy ; and at times saunter 
ing by the delightful windings of the Nith, on 
the margin of which I have built my humble 
domicile, praying for seasonable weather, or 
holding an intrigue with the Muses ; the only 
gypseys with whom I have now any intercourse. 
As I am entered into the holy state of matrimo- 
ny, I trust my face is turned completely Zion- 
ward; and as it is a rule with all honest fel- 
lows, to repeat no grievances, I hope that the 
kittle poetic licences of former days, will of 
course fall under the oblivious influence of some 
good-natured statute of celestial proscription. 
In my family devotion, which, like a good pres- 
byterian, 1 occasionally give to my household 
folks, I am extremely fond of the psalm, " Let 
pot the errors of my youth," &c. and that other, 



" Lo, children are God's heritage," &c. in 
which last Mrs. Burna, who, by the bye, haa a 
glorious " wood-note wild" at either old song 
or psalmody, joins me with the pathos of Han- 
del's Messiah. 



No. CXXII. 
TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 

Ellisland, June 8, 1789. 

SIT DEAR. FRIEND, 

I AM perfectly ashamed of myself when I 
look at the date of your last. It is not that I 
forget the friend of ray heart and the companion 
of my peregrinations ; but I have been con- 
demned to drudgery beyond sufferance, though 
not, thank God, beyond redemption. I have 
had a collection of poems by a lady put into ray 
handi to prepare them for the press ; which 
horrid task, with sowing my corn with my own 
hand, a parcel of masons, wrights, plaisterers, 
&c. to attend to, roaming on business through 
Ayrshire — all this was against me, and the very 
first dreadful article was of itself too much for 
me. 

1 Stli. I have not had a moment to spare from 
incessant toil since the 8th. Life, my dear Sir, 
is a serious matter. You know by experience 
that a man's individual self is a good deal, but 
believe me, a wife and family of children, when- 
ever you have the honour to be a husband and 
a father, will shew you that your present most 
anxious hours of solicitude are spent on trifles. 
The welfare of those who are very dear to us, 
whose only support, hope and stay we are — this, 
to a generous mind, is another sort of more im- 
portant object of care than any concerns what- 
ever which centre merely in the individual. On 
the other hand, let no young, unmarried, rake- 
helly dog among you, make a song of his pre- 
tended liberty and freedom from care. If the 
relations we stand in to king, country, kindred, 
and friends, be any thing but the visionary fan- 
cies of dreaming metaphysicians ; if religion, 
virtue, magnaniniity, generosity, humanity and 
justice be aught but empty sounds ; then the 
man who may be said to live only for others, 
for the beloved, honourable female whose tender 
faithful embrace endears life, and for the help- 
Uss little innocents who are to be the men and 
women, the worshippers of his God, the sub- 
jects of his kinij, and the support, nay the very 
vital existence of his Country, in the ensuing 
age ; — compare such a man with any fellow 
whatever, who, whether lie bustle and push in 
business among labourers, clerks, statesmen ; or 
whether lie roar and rant, and drink and sing 
in taverns — a fellow over whose grave no one 
will breathe a single beigh-ho, except from tho 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



331 



cobweb-tie of what is called good fellowship — 
who has no view nor aim but what terminates 
in himself — if there be any grovelling earthborn 
wretch of our species, a renegade to common 
sense, who would fain believe that the noble 
creature, man, is no better than a sort of fun- 
gus, generated out of nothing, nobody knows 
how, and soon dissipating in nothing, nobody 
knows where ; such a stupid beast, such a 
crawling reptile might balance the foregoing 
unexaggerated comparison, but no one else 
would have the patience. 

Forgive me, my dear Sir, for this long silence. 
To make you amends, I shall send you soon, 
and more encouraging still, without any postage, 
one or two rhymes of my later manufacture. 



No. CXXIIL 
FROM DR. MOORE. 

DBA* SIR, Clifford Street, lOth June,l789. 

I THANE you for the different communica- 
tions you have made me of your occasional pro- 
ductions in manuscript, all of which have merit, 
and some of them merit of a different kind from 
what appears in the poems you have published. 
You ought carefully to preserve all your occa- 
sional productions, to correct and improve them 
at your leisure : and when you can select as 
many of these as will make a volume, publish 
it either at Edinburgh or London, by subscrip- 
tion : On such au occasion, it may be in my 
power, as it is very much in my inclination, to 
be of service to you. 

If I were to offer an opinion, it would be, that 
in your future productions you should abandon 
the Scottish stanza and dialect, and adopt the 
measure and language of modern English poetry. 

The stanza which you use in imitation of 
Christ Kirk on the Green, with the tiresome 
repitition of " that day," is fatiguing to English 
earg, and I should think not very agreeable to 
Scottish. 

All the fine satire and humour of your Uoli/ 
Fair is lost on the English ; yet, without more 
trouble to yourself, you could liave conveyed the 
whole to them. The same is true of some of 

your other poems, la youv JSpiitle to J. i> , 

the stanzas from that beginning with this line, 
" This life, so far's I understand," to that which 
cods with, " Short while it grieves," are easy, 
flowing, gaily philosophical, and of Horatian ele- 
gance — the language is English, with a/cw Scot- 
tish words, and some of those so harmonious, 
as to add to the beauty : for what poet would 
not prefer gloaming to twilight. 

I imagine, that by carefully keeping, and oc- 
casionally polishing and correcting those verses, 
which the muse dictates, you will, within a year 
or two, have another volume as large as the first, 
readjr fsr the press ; and this, without diverting 



you from every proper attention to the study 
and practice of husbandry, in which I under- 
stand you are very learned, and which I fancy 
you will choose to adhere to as a wife, while 
poetry amuses you from time to time as a mis- 
tress. The former, like a prudent wife, must 
not show ill humour, although you retain a 
sneaking kindness to this agreeable gipsy, and 
pay her occasional visits, which in no manner 
alienates your heart from your lawful spouse, but 
tends on the contrary to promote her interest. 

I desired Jlr. Cadell to write to Mr. Creech 
to send you a copy of Zcluco. This perform- 
ance has had great success here, but I shall be 
glad to have your opinion of it, because I know 
you are above saying what you do not think. 

I beg you will offer my best wishes to my 
very good friend Mrs. Hamilton, who I under- 
stand is your neighbour. If she is as happy aa 
I wish her, she is happy enough. Make my 
compliments also to Mrs. Burns, and beUeve me 
to be, with sincere esteem, 

Dear Sir, yours, &c. 



No. CXXIV. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, 2\st June, 1789. 

HEAR MADAM, 

Will you take the effusions, the miserable 
effusions of low spirits, just as they flow from 
their bitter spring. I know not of any particu- 
lar cause for this worst of all my foes besetting 
me, but for some time my soul has been be- 
clouded with a thickening atmosphere of eril 
imaginations and gloomy presages. 



Monday Evening, 
I have just heard .... give a sermon. 
He is a man famous for his benevolence, and I 
revere him ; but from such ideas of ray Creator, 
good Lord deliver me ! Religion, my honoured 
friend, is surely a simple business, as it equally 
concerns the ignorant and the learned, the poor 
and the rich. That there is an incomprehensi- 
bly great Being, to whom I owe my existence, 
and that he must be intimately acquainted with 
the operations and progress of the internal ma- 
chinery, and consequent outward deportment of 
this creature which he has made; these are, I 
think, self-evident propositions. That there is 
a real and eternal distinction between virtue and 
vice, and consequently that I am an accountable 
creature ; that from the seeming nature of the 
human mind, as well as from the evident im- 
perfection, nay, positive injustice, in the admi- 
nistration of affairs, both in the natural and 
moral worlds, there must be a retributive scene 
of « Ki»teac« bej^ond the grave ; must, I thioliv 



332 



BURNS' WORKS. 



be allowed by every one wbo will give himself a 
moment's reflection. I will go farther, and af- 
firm, that from the sublimity, excellence, and 
purity of his doctrine and precepts, unparalleled 
by all the aggregated wisdom and learning of 
many preceding ages, though, to appearance, he 
himself was the obscurest and most illiterate of 
our species; therefore, Jesus Christ was from 
God. 



Whatever mitigates the woes, or increases 
the happiness of others, this is my criterion of 
goodness ; and whatever injures society at large, 
or any individual in it, this is my measure of 
iniquity. 

Wliat think you. Madam, of my creed ? I 
trust that I have said nothing that will lessen 
me in the eye of one, whose good opinion I va- 
lue almost next to the approbation of ray own 
mind. 



No. CXXV. 



FROM MISS J. L- 



»IR, JLouiIon-House, I'Hth July, 17S9. 

Though I have not the happiness of being 
personally acquainted with you, yet amongst the 
flCmber of those who have read and admired 
your publications, may I be permitted to trouble 
you with this. You must know, Sir, I um 
somewhat in love with the Muses, though I 
cannot boast of any favours they have deigned 
to confer upon me as yet ; my situation in life 
has been very much against me as to that. I 
have spent some years in and about Ecclefechan 
(where my parents reside), in the station of a 
servant, and am now come to Loudon-House, 

at present possessed by Mrs. H : she is 

daughter to Mrs. Dunlop, of Dunlop, whom I 
understand you are particularly acquainted with. 
As I had the pleasure of perusing your poems, 
I felt a partiality for the author, which I should 
not have experienced had you been in more dig- 
niGed station. I wrote a few verses of address 
to you, which I did not then think of ever pre- 
senting : but as fortune seems to have favoured 
me in this, by bringing me into a family by 
whom you are well known and much esteemed, 
and where perhaps I may have an opportunity 
of seeing you ; I shall, in hopes of your future 
friendship, take the liberty to transcribe them. 



Fair fa' the honest rustic swain, 
The pride o' a' our Scottisli plain : 
Thou gi'es us joy to hear thy strain, 

And note sae sweet : 
Old Ramsay's shade revived again 

In the« we greet. 



Loved Thalia, that delightfu' muie, 
Seem'd lang shut up as a recluse ; 
To all she did her aid refuse. 

Since Allan's day : 
'Till Burns arose, then did she chuse 

To grace his lay. 

To hear thy sang aU ranks desire, 
Sae weel you strike the dormant lyre ; 
Apollo with poetic fire 

Thy breast does warm ; 
And critics silently admire 

Thy art to charm. 

Caesar and Luath weel can speak, 
*Tis pity e'er their gabs should steek, 
But into human nature keek. 

And knots unravel : 
To hear their lectures once a-week, 

Nine miles I'd travel. 

Thy dedication to G. H. 
. An unco bonnie hamespun speech, 
Wi* winsome glee the heart can teach 

A better ksson, 
Than servile bards, who fawn and fleech 

Like beggar's messon. 

When slighted love becomes your theme, 
And women's faithless vows you blame; 
With so much pathos you exclaim, 

In your lament ; 
But glanced by the most frigid dame, 

She would relent. 

The daisy too ye sing wi' skill ; 
And wei'l ye praise the whisky gill; 
In vain I blunt my feckless quill. 

Your fame to raise ; 
While echo sounds from ilka hill, 

To Burns's praise. 

Did Addison or Pope but hear, 

Or Sam, that critic most severe, 

A pluughboy sing with throat sae clear, 

They in a rage. 
Their works would a' in pieces tear, 

And curse your page. 

Sure Milton's eloquence were faint. 
The beauties of your verse to paint, 
My rude unpolish'd strokes but taint 

Their brilliancy ; 
Th' attempt would doubtless vex a sainlj 
And weel may me. 

The task I'll drop with heart sincere, 
To heaven present my humble pray'r, 
That all the blessings mortals share, 

May be by turns. 
Dispensed by an indulgent care 

To Robert Bums. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



dSS 



Sir, I hope you will pardon my boldness in 
this ; my hand trembles while 1 write to you, 
conscious of my unworthiness of what I would 
most earnestly solicit, viz. your favour and 
fi"iendship ; yet hoping you will show yourself 
possessed of as much generosity and good-nature 
as will prevent your exposing what may justly 
be found liable to censure in this measure, I 
shall take the liberty to subscribe myself. 
Sir, 
Your most obedient hun hie servant, 

J 

P. S. — If you would condescend to honour 
me with a few lines from your hand, I would 
take it as a particular favour, and direct to me 
at Loudon-House, near Galslock. 



No. CXXVI. 

FROM MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

MY DEAR sia, London, bth Aug. 17S9. 

Excuse me when I say, that the uncommon 
abilities which you possess, must render your 
correspondence very acceptable to any one. I 
can assure you, I am p.irticularly proud of your 
partiality, and shall endeavour, by every method 
in my power, to merit a coutiuuance of your 
politeness. 



■ When you can spare a few moments I should 
be proud of a letter from you, directed for 'nie, 
Qe):rard Street, Soho. 



I cannot pxprcs* my happiness sufficiently 
at the instance of ynur attachment to my late 
inestimable iViend, Bob Fergusson, who was 
particularly intiniate with mystif and relations.* 
While I rcollect with pleasure his extraordinary 
talents, and many amialde qualities, it affords 
me the greatest consolation, tliat I am honoured 
with the correspondence of his successor in na^ 
tional simplicity and genius. That Mr. Burns 
has refined in the art of ])oetry, must readily be 
admitted ; but notwithstanding many favourable 
representations, I am yet to ieam that he in- 
herits his convivial powers. 

There was such a richness of conversation, 
such a plenitude of fancy and attraction in him, 
that when I call the happy period of our inter- 
course to my memory, I feel myself in a state of 
delirium, I was then younger than him by 
eight or ten years ; but his manner was so feli- 
citous, that he enraptured every person around 
him, and infused into the hearts of the young 
and old, the spirit and animation which operated 
on his own mind. 

I am, dear Sir, yours, &c. 



* Dm KMtlon of a nonument to bin. 



No. CXXVII. 
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM, 

IK ANSWER TO THE FOREGOIKa. 
MY DEAR SIR, 

The hurry of a farmer in this particular sea- 
son, and the indolence of a poet at all times and 
seasons, will, I hope, plead my excuse for ne- 
glecting so long to answer your obliging letter 
of the oth of August. 

That you have done well in quitting your la- 
borious concern in . . . . I do not doubt ; 
the weighty reasons you mention were, I hope, 
very, and deservedly indeed, weighty ones, and 
your health is a matter of the last importance ; 
but whether the remaining proprietors of the 
paper have also done well, is what I much 

doubt. The so far as I was a 

reader, exhibited such a brilliancy of point, such 
an elegance of para'jraph, and such a variety of 
intelligence, that I can hardly conceive it possi- 
ble to continue a daily paper in the same degree 
of excellence ; but if there was a man who had 
abilities equal to the task, that roan's assistance 
the proprietors have lust. 



When I received your letter I was transcri- 
bing for my letter to the magistrates 

of the Canongate, Edinbuigh, begging their per- 
mission to place a tomb-stone over pour Fergus- 
son, and their edict in consequence of my peti- 
tion ; but now I shall send them to ... . 

. . Poor Fergusson ! If there be a life be- 
yond the grave, which I trust there is ; and if 
there be a good God presiding over all nature, 
which I am sure there is ; thou art now enjoy- 
ing existence in a glorious Wdrld, where worth 
of the heart alone is distinction in the man ; 
where riches, deprived of all their pleasure-pur- 
chasing powers, return to their native sordid 
niattei : where titles and honours are the disre- 
g u.i il reveries of an idle dream ; and where 
that iicavy virtue, which is the neijative conse- 
quence of steady dulness, and thnse thoughtless, 
though often destructive fullies, which are the 
unavoidable aberrations of frail human nature, 
will be thrown into equal oblivion as if they had 
never been ! 

Adieu, my dear Sir ! so soon as your present 
views and schemes are concentred in an aim, I 
shall be glad to hear from you : ai your wel- 
fare and happiness is by no means a subject ia- 
different to 

Yours, ho. 



SS4 



BURNS' WORKS. 



No, CXXVllI. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
Ellisland, 6th September, 17S9. 

SXAK MADAM, 

I HAVE mentioned in niy last, my appoint- 
ment to the excise, and the birth of little Frank ; 
who, by the bye, I trust will be no discredit to 
the honourable nama of Wallace, as he has a 
fine manly countenance, and a figure that might 
do credit to a little fellow two months older ; 
and likewise an excellent good temper, though 
when he pleases he has a pipe, only not quite so 
loud as the horn that his immortal namesake 
blew as a signal to take out the pin of Stirling 
bridge. 

1 had some time ago an epistle, part poetic, 
and part prosaic, from your poetess, Mrs. J. 
L ; a very ingenious, but modest compo- 
sition. I should have written her as she re- 
quested, but for the hurry of this new business. 
I have heard of her and her compositions in this 
country : and I am happy to add, always to the 
honour of her character. The fact is, I know 
sot well how to write to her ; I should sit 
down to a sheet of paper that I knew not how 
to stain. I am no daub at fine drawn letter- 
writing ; and except when prompted by friend- 
ship or gratitude, or which happens extremely 
rarely, inspired by the Muse (I know not her 
name), that presides over epistolary writing, I 
fiit down, when necessitated to write, as I would 
sit down to beat hemp. 

Some parts of your letter of the 20th August 
struck me with melancholy concern for the state 
of your mind at present. 



Would I could write you a letter of comfort ! I 
Would sit down to it with as much pleasure, as 
1 would to write an epic poem of ray own com- 
position, that should equal the Iliad. Religion, 
my dear friend, is the true comfort ! A strong 
persuasion in a future state of existence ; a pro- 
position so obviously probable, that, setting re- 
velation aside, every nation and people, so far as 
investigation has reached, for at least near four 
thousand years, have, in some mode or other, 
firmly believed it. In vain would we reason and 
pretend to doubt. I have myself done so to a 
very daring pitch ; but when I reflected, that I 
wua opposing the most ardent wishes, and the 
most darling hopes of good men, and flyiug in 
the face of all human belief, in all ages, I was 
shocked at my own conduct. 

I know not whether I have ever sent you the 
following lines, or if you have ever seen them ; 
but it is one of my favourite quotations, which 
I keep constantly by me in my progress through 
life, in the language of the book of Job, 

" Against the day of battle and of war."— 

spoken of religion, 



" 'Tis thi3, my friend, tliat streak* our morninj 
bright, 
*Tis this that gilds the horror of our night. 
When wealth forsakes us, and when friends 

are few ; 
When friends are faithless, or when foes pur- 
sue ; 
'Tis this that wards the blow, or stills the 

smart. 
Disarms affliction or repels his dart : 
M'ithin the breast bids purest raptures rise. 
Bids smiling- conscience spread hsr cloudless 
skies.' 

I Ijavc been very busy with Zeluco, The 
Doctor is so obliging as to request my opinion 
of it ; and 1 have been revolving in my mind 
some kind of criticisms on novel writing, but 
it is a depth beyond ray research. I shall how- 
ever digest my thoughts on the subject as well 
as I can. Zeluco is a most sterling perfor- 
mance. 

Farewell ! A Dieu, le bon Di«u, je vou$ 
coinmende I 



No. CXXIX. 

FROM DR. BLACKLOCK. 

Edinburgh, 2ith August, 1789. 
Dear Burks, thou brother of my heart, 
Both for thy virtues and thy art : 
If art it may be call'd in thee. 
Which nature's bounty, large and free. 
With pleasure on thy breast diffuses. 
And warms thy soul with all the Muses. 
Whether to laugh with easy grace, 
Thy numbers move the sage's face. 
Or bid the softer passions rise. 
And ruthless souls with grief surprise, 
'Tis nature's voice distinctly felt. 
Through thee her organ, thus to melt. 

Most anxiously I wish to know. 
With thee of late how matters go ; 
How keeps thy much-loved Jean her health? 
What promises thy farm of wealth ? 
Whether the Muse persists to smile, 
And all thy anxious cares beguile ? 
Whether bright fancy keeps alive? 
And how thy darling infants thrive ? 

For me, with grief and sickness spent, 
Since I my journey homeward bent, 
Spirits depress'd no more I mourn. 
But vigour, life, and health return. 
No more to gloomy thoughts a prey, 
I sleep all night, and live all day ; 
By turns my book and friend enjoy, 
And thus my circling hours employ ; 
Happy while yet these hours remain. 
If Burns could join the cheerful train, 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



Sd5 



■Witli wonted leal, sincere and fervent, 
Salute once more bis humble servant, 

THO. BLACKLOCK. 



No. CXXX. 

TO DR. BLACKLOCK. 

ElUdand 2\st October, 1789. 
Wow, but your letter made me vauntie ! 
And are ye hale, aud weel, and cantic ? 
I ken'd it still your wee bit jauntie. 

Wad bring ye to ; 
Lord send you aye as weel's I want ye, 
And then ye'll do. 

The ill-thief blaw the Heron south ! 
And never drink be near his drouth ! 
He tauld mysel by word o' mouth, 

He'd tak my letter ; 
I lippen'd to the chiel in trouth. 

And bade nae better 

But aiblins honest Master Heron, 
Had at the time some dainty fair one, 
To ware his theologic care on, 

And holy study ; 
And tired o' sauls to waste his lear on. 

E'en tried the body. • 

But what d'ye think, my trusty fier, 
I'm turu'd a ganger — Pea'^e be here ! 
Parnassian queens, I fear, I fear, 

Ye'll now disdain me, 
And then my fifty pounds a-year 

Will little gain me. 

Ye glaiket, gleesome, dainty damies, 
Wha by Castalia's wimpHii sfreamies, 
Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbias. 

Ye ken, ye ken, 
That Strang necessity suprenif is 

'Mang sons o' men. 

I hae a wife and twa wee laddies, 

They maun hae brose and brats o' duddies : 

Ye ken yoursel nay heart right proud is, 

I needna vaunt, 
But I'll sned besoms — thtaw saugh woodies, 

Before they want. 

Lord help me through this warld o' care ! 
I'm weary sick o't late and air I 
Not but I hae a richer share 

Than mony ithers ; 
But why should ae man better fare, 

And u' men brithera ! 



Come Firm Resolve take thou the van, 
Thou stalk o* carl-hemp in man ! 
And let us mind, faint heart ne'er Wan 

A lady fair : 
Wha does ths utmost that he can, 

Will whyles do mair. 

But to conclude my silly rhyme, 

( I'm scant o' verse, and scant o' time), 

To make a happy fire-side clime 

To weans and wife. 
That's the true pathos and sublime 

Of human life. 

My compliments to sister Beckie ; 
And eke the same to honest Lucky ; 
I wat she is a dainty chuckie, 

As e'er tread clay ! 
And gratefully my gude auld cockie, 

I'm your's for aye. 

ROBERT BURNS. 



• Mr. Heron, author of the History of Scotland ; 
»nd nmong various other works, of a respectable life 
of our poet hirajjelf. 



No. CXXXI. 
TO CAPTAIN RIDDEL, Carse. 

SIR, ElUsland, Oct. 16, 1789. 

BiQ with the idea of this important day • at 
Friars Carse, I have watched the elements and 
skies in the full persuasion that they would an- 
nounce it to the astonished world by some pheno- 
mena of terrific portent. — Yesternight until a 
very late hour did I wait with anxious horror, 
for the appearance of some Comet firing half the 
sky ; or aerial armies of sanguinary Scandina- 
vians, darting athwart the startled heavens ra- 
pid as the ragged lightning, and horrid as those 
convulsions of nature that bury nations. 

The elements, however, seem to take the mat- 
ter very quietly : they did not even usher in 
this morning with triple suns and a shower of 
blood, symbolical of the three potent heroes, aud 
the mighty claret-shed of the day. — For me, as 
Thomson in his Winter says of the storm — I 
shall " Hear astonished, and astonished sing," 

The whistle and the man ; I sing 
The man that won the whistle, &c. 



No. CXXXIL 
TO THE SAME. 



I WISH from my inmost soul it were in my 
power to give you a more substantial gratifica- 



• The day on which 
for. 



' the Whistle" was contesiM 



316 



BURNS* WORKS. 



tion and return for all your goodness to the poet, 
than transcribing a few of his idle rhymes. — 
However, " an old song," though to a proverb 
an instance of insig^uificance, is generally the 
only coin a poet has to pay with. 

If my poems which I have transcribed, and 
mean still to transcribe into your book, were 
equal to the grateful respect and high esteem I 
bear for the gentleman to whom I present them, 
they would be the finest poems in the language. 
— Ai they are, they will at least be a testimony 
with what sincerity I have the honour to be, 
Sir, 
Your devoted humble servant. 



No. CXXXIII. 
TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 

EUisland, Nov. I, 1789. 

MT DEAR FRIEND, 

I HAD written you long ere now, could I have 
guessed where to find you, for I am sure you 
have more good sense than to waste the precious 
days of vacation time in the dirt of business and 
Edinburgh. — Wherever you are, God bless you, 
and lead you not into temptation, but deliver 
you from evil ! 

I do not know if I have informed you that I 
am now appointed to an excise division, in the 
middle of which my house and farm lie. In this 
I was extremely lucky. Without ever having 
been an expectant, as they call their journeymen 
excisemen, I was directly planted down to all in- 
tents and purposes an officer of excise ; there to 
flourish and bring forth fruits — worthy of re- 
pentance. 

I know not how the word exciseman, or still 
more opprobrious, ganger, will sound in your 
eats. I too have seen the day when my audi- 
tory nerve» would have felt very delicately on 
this subject; but a wife and children are things 
which have a wonderful power in blunting these 
kind of sensations. Fifty pounds a year for 
life, and a provision for widows and orphans, 
you will allow is no bad settlement for a poet. 
For the ignominy of the profession, I have the 
encouragement which I once heard a recruiting 
lergeant give to a numerous, if not a respec- 
table audience, in the streets of Kilmarnock. 
— " Gentlemen, for your further and better en- 
couragement, I can assure you that our regiment 
if the most blackguard corps under the crown, 
and consequently with us an honest fellow has 
the surest chance for preferment." 

You need not doubt that I find several very 
unpleasant and disagreeable circumstances in my 
business ; but I am tired with and disgusted 
at the language of complaint against the evils of 
life. Human existence in the most favourable 
•ituationt does not abound with pleasures, and 
|U» its iacoDveni«ncea and ills ; capricioui fool< 



iah man mistakes these inconveniences and ilU 
as if they were the peculiar property of his p»r- 
ticular situation ; and hence that eternal fickle- 
ness, that love of change, which has ruined, and 
daily does ruin many a fine fellow, as well as 
many a blockhead ; and is almost, without ex- 
ception, a constant source of disappointment and 
misery. 

I long to hear from you how you go on — not 
so much in business as in life. Are you pretty 
well satisfied with your own exertions, and to- 
lerably at ease in your internal reflections ? 
'Tis much to be a great character as a lawyer, 
but beyond comparison more to be a great cha- 
racter as a man. That you may be both the 
one and the other is the earnest wish, and that 
you will be both is the firm persuasion of, 
My dear Sir, &c 



No. CXXXIV. 
TO R. GRAHAIVl, ESQ. OF FINTRY. 

SIR, Qth December, 1789. 

I HAVE a good while had a wish to troublo 
you with a letter, and had certainty done it long 
ere now — but for a humiliating something that 
throws cold water on the resolution, as if one 
hould say, " You have found Mr. Graham a 
very powerful and kind friend indeed, and that 
interest he is so kindly taking in your concerns, 
you ought by every tlung in your power to keep 
alive and cherish." Now though, since God 
has thought proper to make one powerful and 
another helpless, the connexion of obliger and 
obliged is all fair; and though my being under 
your patronage is to me highly honourable, yet. 
Sir, allow me to flatter myself, that, as a poet 
and an honest man, you first interested yourself 
in my welfare, and principally as such still, you 
permit me to approach you. 

I have found the excise business go on a great 
deal smoother with me than I expected ; owing 
a good deal to the generous friendship of Mr. 
Mitchell, my collector, and the kind assistance 
of Mr. Findlater, my supervisor. I dare to be 
honest, and I fear no labour. Nor do I find 
my hurried life greatly inimical to my corres- 
pondence with the Muses. Their visits to me, 
indeed, and I believe to most of their acquaint- 
ance, like the visits of good angels, are short and 
far between ; but I meet them now and then aa 
I jog through the hills of Nithsdale, just as I 
used to do on the banks of Ayr. I take the li. 
berty to enclose you a few bagatelles, all of them 
the productions of my leisure thoughts ia njr 
excise ridea. 

If you know or have ever seen Captain Grose, 
the antiquarian, you will enter into any humour 
that is in the verses on him. Perhaps you have 
seen them before, as I sent them to a London 
newspaper. Though I dure uj jroa lurt wm% 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



SS7 



of tlie solemn-league-and-covenant fire, which 
slione so conspicuous ia Lord George Gordon, 
and the Kilmarnock weavers, yet 1 think you 
must have heard of Dr. M'Gill, one of the cler- 
gymen of Ayr, and his heretical book, God 
help him, poor man ! Though he is one of the 
worthiest, as well as one of the ablest of the 
whole priesthood of the Kirk of Scotland, in 
every sense of that ambiguous term, yet the poor 
Doctor and his numerous family are in immi- 
nent danger of being thrown out to the mercy 
of the winter-winds. The enclosed ballad on 
that business is, I confess, too local, but I 
]aughed myself at some conceits in it, thougli 
I am convinced in my conscience, that there are 
a good many heavy stanzas in it too. 

The election ballad, as you will see, alludes 
to the present canvass in our string of boroughs, 
I do not believe there will be such a hai'd run 
match in the whole general election. * 



I am too little a man to have any political 
attachments; I am deeply indebted to, and 
have the warmest veneration for, individuals 
of both parties ; but a man who has it in his 
power to be the father of a country, and who 

is a character that one cannot 

speak of with patience. 

Sir J. J. does " what man can do," but yet 
I doubt his fate. 



■ No. CXXXV. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

EUisland, ISth December, 1789. 
Many thanks, dear JMadam, lor your sheet- 
fal of Rhymes. Though at present I am below 
the veriest prose, yet from you every thing 
pleases. I am groaning under the miseries of 
a diseased nervous s_i.-stem ; a system, the state 
of which is most conducive to our happiness— 
or the most productiva of our misery. For 
BOW near three weeks I have been so ill with 
a nervous head-ache, that I have been obliged 
to give up, for a time, my excise hooks, being 
scarce able to lift my head, much less to V'ie 
once a-week over ten muir parislies. What is 
Man ! To-diiy, in the luxuriance nt" health, ex- 
ulting in the enjuymcnt of existence ; in a few 
days, perhaps in a few htiiirs, Inadid with con- 
scious puinf'il being, counting the tuidy pace of 
the lingering int nients by the reperciifoions of 
anuuish, and refusing or denied a cointoitei-. 
Day follou-s pight, and night euines nffer day. 



only to curse him with life which gives him no 
pleasure ; and yet the awful, dark termination 
of that hfe, is a something at which he recoils. 

" Tell us, ye dead ; will none of you in pity 
Disclose the secret ■ 

What 'tis you arc, and we must shortly he I 
'tis no matter i 



* • his allu(l''S to the omtest for tlic liorlmcli oi 
Dumfries, licweeu llic Ihikc '.I Quccuibcrry'i hiltrcal 
and Uut of Sir James vftilnrston^ 



A little time wfll make us learn'd as you are," 

Can it be possible, that when I resign this 
frail, feverish being, I shall still find myself Ja 
conscious existence ! Wlicn the last gasp of 
agony has announced, that I am no more to 
those that knew me, and the few who loved 
me : when the cold, stiffened, unconscious, 
ghastly corse is resigned into the earth, to be 
the prey of unsightly reptiles, and to become in 
time a trodden clod, shall I yet be warm in life, 
seeing and seen, enjoying and enjoyed ? Ye ve- 
nerable sages, and holy flamens, is there proba- 
bility in your conjectures, truth in your stories 
of another world beyond death : or are they all 
alike, baseless visions, and fabricated fables ? If 
there is another life, it must be only for the just, 
the benevolent, the amiable, and the humane ; 
what a flattering idea, then, is the world to 
come? Would to God I as firmly believed it, 
as I ardently wish it! There I should meet an 
aged parent, now at rest from the many buffet- 
iugs of an evil world, against which he so long 
and so bravely struggled. There should I meet 
the friend, the disinterested friend of my early 
life ; the man who rejoiced to see me, because 

he loved me aijd could serve me. Muir! thy 

weaknesses were the aberrations of human na- 
ture, but thy heart glowed with every thing ge- 
nerous, manly, and noble ; and if ever emana- 
tion from the All-good Being animated a human 
form, it was thine I — There should 1 with 
speechless agony of rapture, again recognize my 
lost, my ever dear I\Iary ! whose bosom was 
fraught with truth, honour, constancy, and lore. 

My Blary, dear departed shade ! 

Whore is thy place of heavenly rest ? 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans tliat rend his breast ? 

Jesus Christ, thou amiablest of characters ! 
I trust thou art no impostor, and that thy re- 
velation of blissful scenes of existence beyond 
death and the grave, is not one of the many 
impositions which time after time have been 
palmed on credulous mankind. I trust that in 
diee, " ^ll ill .ill the families of tlie earth be 
l)le>si.'d," hy lieing yet connected together in a 
bi'tter u-i>rld, u-hert evcrv tie that bound ijcart 
to hmrt, in thin stuti- of existence, shall l>e, far 
beyond our proerit coi'.i-e|it)Oiis, more endearing, 

I an) a ^nnil dm! inclined to think uitli tliuse 
w\m (Ti.iintain, that what are wiled nervous «f- 
fei'liuiix Ar« in fu't dixeascs of the mind. 1 can- 
not H'ltMin, I (Miinnt think ; iin<l but to ynu I 
wiitiiii not vcntuiu to write any lliiug above ao 



tiB 



feDRNS* WORKS. 



Order to a cobbler. Vou btve felt too much of 
the ills of life not to sympathize with a diseased 
Wretch, who has impaired more than half of any 
faculties he povsestsed. Your goodness will ex- 
cute thii distracted scrawl, which the writer 
dare scarcely read, aud which he would throw 
into the fire, were he able to write any thing 
better, or indeed any thing at all. 

Rumour told m« something of a son of yours 
who was returned from the East or West In- 
flict. If you have gotten news of James or An- 
thony, it was cruel in you not to let me know ; 
a* I promise you, on the sincerity of a man, 
who is weary of on* world and anxious about 
another, that scarce any thing could give me so 
much pleasure as to hear of any good thing be- 
falling my honoured friend. 

If you have a minute's leisure, take up your 
p<n in pity to It pauvre miscrabit. R. B. 



No. CXXXVI. 
TO SIR JOHN SINCLAIR. 



Tux following circumstance has, I believe, 
been omitted in the statistical account, trans- 
mitted to you, of the parish of Dunscore, in 
Nithsdale. I beg leave to send it to you, be- 
cause it is new and may be useful. How far it 
it deserving of a place in your patriotic publica- 
tion, you are the best judge. 

To store the minds of the lower classes with 
useful knowledge, is certainly of very great im- 
portance, both to them ^s individuals, and to 
•ociety at large. Giving them a turn for read- 
ing and reflection, is giving them a source of 
iuDOcei\^ and laudable anmsement ; and besides 
raises them to a more dignified degree in the 
Mdle of rationality. Impressed with this idea, 
a gentleman in this parish, Robert Riddel, Esq. 
of Glenriddel, set on foot a species of circulat- 
ing liberary, on a plan so simple as to be prac- 
ticable in any corner of the country ; and so 
Mscful, as to deserve the notice of every country 
gentleman, who thinks the improvement of that 
part of his own species, whom chance has 
thrown into the humble walks of the peasant 
and the artizan, a matter worthy of his atten- 
tion. 

Mr. Riddel got a number of hit own tenants, 
and farming neighbours, to form themselves 
into a society for the purpose of having a library 
among themselves. They entered into a legal 
engagement to abide by it for three years ; with 
a saving clause or two, in case of removal to a 
distance, or of death. Each member, at his 
entry, paid five shillings, and at each of their 
meetings, which were held every fourth Satur- 
day, sixpence more. With their entry-money, 
and the credit which they took on the faith of 
l^tr ftttdre funds, tbejr kid in a tolerable stock 



of books at the commencetnent. What authdre 
they were to purchase, was always decided bjr 
the majority. At every meeting, all the books, 
under certain fines and forfeitures, by way of 
penalty, were to be produced ; and the mem- 
bers had their choice of the volumes in rotation. 
He whose name stood, for that night, first on 
the list, had his choice of what volume he pleas- 
ed in the whole collection ; the second had his 
choice after the first ; the third after the second, 
and 80 on to the last. At next meeting, he who 
had been first on the list at the preceding meet- 
ing, was last at this ; he who had been second 
was first ; and so ou through the whole threo 
years. At the expiration of the engagement, 
the books were sold by auction, but only among 
the members themselves : and each man had hie 
share of the common stock, in money or in 
books, as he chose to be a purchaser or not. 

At the breaking up of this little society, 
which was formed under Mr. Riddel's patron- 
age, what with benefactions of books from him, 
and what with their own purchases, they bad 
collected together upwards of one hundred and 
fifty volumes. It will easily be guessed, that a 
good deal of trash would be bought. Among 
the books, however, of this little library, were 
JBlair^s Sermons, Robertson's Histnry of Scot' 
land, Humes History of the Stuurts, the Spte* 
tato~, Idler, Adventurer, Mirror, Loungtr, 
Observer, Man of Feeling, Man of the World, 
Chrysal, Don Quixotte, Joseph Andrtwt, jr«. 
A peasant who can read, and enjoy such booki, 
is certaioly u much superior being to his neigh- 
bour, who perhaps stalks beside his team, very 
little removed, except in shape, from the brute 
he drives. 

Wishing your patriotic exertions tfaeir M 
much merited success, I am, 
Sir, 

Your humble lervant, 
A PEASANT.* 



* The above is extracted Arom the third volume ot 
Sir John Sinclair's Statistics, p. 598. — It was cncloie4 
to Sir John by Mr. Riddel himseU' in the foUowlof 
letter, also printed there :— 

" Sir John, 

" I enclose you a letter, written by Mr. Bums as sa 
addition to the account of Ounscore parish. It con. 
tains an account of a small library which he was so 
good (at my desire), as to set on foot, in the barony of 
Monkland, or Friar's Carse, in this parish. As its 
utility has been felt, particularly among the younger 
class of people, I think, that if a similar plan were es- 
tablished, in the diSetent parishes of Scotland, iC 
would tend greatly to the speedy improvement of the 
tenantry, trades people, and work people. Mr. Bums 
was so good as to take the whole charge of this small 
concern. He was trea.surer, librarian, and censor to 
this little society, who will lung have a grateful sense 
of his public spirit and exertions for their improve* 
raent and information. 

•• 1 have the honour to be, Sir John, 
" Yours most sincerely, 

•• ROBKRT RIDDBL.* 

To Sir John Sinclair, 
<^Ulbit(r, Bart. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



839 



LETTERS, 1790. 
No. cxxxvir. 

TO MR. GILBERT BURNS, 

ElUslaiuJ, Wth January, 1790. 

toSAK BROTHSR, 

I MEAN to take advantage of the frank, though 
I have not in iny present frame of mind much 
appetite for exertion in writing^. My nerves 
are in a . . . . state. I feel that horrid 
liypochondria pervading every atom of both 
body and soul. This farm has undone my en- 
joyment of myself. It is a ruinous affair on all 
hands. But let it go to . . . ! I'll fight it 
out and be oif with it. 

We have gotten a set of very decent players 
here just now, I have seen them an evening 
or two. David Campbell, in Ayr, wrote to me 
by the manager of the company, a Mr. Suther- 
land, who is a man of apparent worth. On 
New-year-day evening I gave him the following 
prologue, which he spouted to his audience with 
applause. 

PROLOGUE. 
No song nor dance I bring from yon great 
city, 
That queens it o'er our taste — the more's the 

pity : 
Though, by the bye, abroad why will you roam ? 
Good sense and taste are natives here at home ; 
But not for panegyric I appear, 
I come to wish you all a good new year ! 
Old Father Time deputes me here before ye, 
Not for to preach, but tell his simple story : 
The sage grave ancient cough'd, and bade me 

say, 
*' You're one year older this important day," 
If wiser too — he hinted some suggestion, 
But 'twould be rude, you know, to ask the ques- 
tion ; 
And with a would-be-roguish leer and wink, 
He bade me on you press this one word^ 
" THINK !" 

Ye sprightly youths, quite flush with hope 
and spirit, 
Who think to storm the world by dint of merit, 
To you the dotard has a deal to say. 
In his sly, dry, sententious, proverb way ! 
He bids you mind, amid your thoughtless rattle, 
That the first blow is ever half the battle ; 
That though some by the skirt may try to snatch 

him. 
Yet by the forelack is the hold to catch him, 
That whether doing, suffering, or forbearing, 
You may do miracles by persevering. 

Last, though not least in love, ye youthful fair. 
Angelic forms, high Heaven's peculiar care ! 
To you old Bald-pata smooths his wrinkled 

brow, 
And humbly begs you'll mind the important — 

:!«ow! 



To crown your happioefts, ha asks your leave. 
And offers, bliss to give and to receive. 

For our sincere, though hai)ly weak endea* 
vours. 
With grateful pride we own your many favours: 
And howsoe'er our tongues may ill reveal it. 
Believe our glowing bosoms truly feci it. 



I can no more. — If once I was clear of this 
. . . farm, I should respire more at ease. 



No. CXXXVIIL 

FROM WILLIAM BURNS, THE POETS 
BROTHER, 

DEAR BROTHER, Newcastle, 24^ ft Jan. 1790. 
I WROTE you about six weeks ago, and I have 
expected to hear from you every post since, but 
I suppose your excise business which you hinted 
at in your last, has prevented you from writing. 
By the bye, when and how have you got into 
the excise ; and what division have you got 
about Dumfries? These questions please an- 
swer in your next, if more important matter do 
not occur. But in the mean time let me have 
the letter to John Murdoch, which Gilbert wrote 
me you meant to send j enclose it in your's to 
me, and let me have them as soon as possible, 
fur I intend to sail for London, in a fortnight, 
or three weeks at farthest. 

You promised me when I was intending to 
go to Edinburgh, to write me some instructions 
about behaviour in companies rather abore my 
station, to which I might be eventually intro- 
duced. As I may be introduced into such com- 
panies at Murdoch's, or on his account, when I 
go to London, I wish you would write me some 
such instructions now : I never had more need 
of them, for having spent little of my time ia 
company of any sort since I came to Newcastle, 
I have almost forgot the common civilities of 
life. To these instructions pray add some of a 
moral kind, for though (either through the 
strength of early impressions, or the frigidity of 
my constitution), I have hitherto withstood the 
temptation to those vices, to which young fel- 
lows of my station and time of life are so much 
addicted, yet, I do not know if my virtue will 
he able to withstand the more powerful tempta- 
tions of the metropolis : yet, through God's as- 
sistance and your instructions, I hope to wea- 
ther the storm. 

Give the compliments of the season and my 
love to my sisters, and all the rest of your fa- 
mily. Tell Gilbert, the first time you write 
him, that I am well, and that I will write him 
either when I sail or when I arrive at London. 
I am, &c ^ 

W. B, 



S40 



BURNS' WORKS. 



No. CXXXIX. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, 25th January, 1790. 

It has been owing to uuremitting hurry of 
business that I have not written to you, Ma- 
dam, long ere now. My health is greatly bet- 
ter, and I now begin once more to share in sa- 
tisfaction and enjoyment with the rest of my 
fellow-creatures. 

Many thanks, my much esteemed friend, for 
your kind letters ; but wl.y will you make me 
run the risk of being contemptible and merce- 
nary in my own eyes ! When I pique myself 
on my independent spirit, I hope it is neither 
poetic license, nor poetic rant ; and I am so 
flattered with the honour you have done me, 
in making me j'our compeer in friendship and 
friendly correspondence, that I cannot without 
pain, and a degree of mortification, bs reminded 
of the real inequality between our situations. 

Most sincerely do I rejoice with you, dear 
Madam, in the good news of Anthony. Not 
only your anxiety about his fate, but my own 
esteem for such a noble, warm-hearted, manly 
young fellow, in the little I had of his acquaint- 
ance, has interested me deeply in his fortunes. 

Falconer, the unfortunate author of the Ship- 
wreck, which you so much admire, is no mere. 
After weathering the dreadful catastrophe be so 
feelingly describes in his poem, and after wea- 
thering many hard gales of fortune, he went to 
the bottom with the Aurora frigate ! I forget 
what part of Scotland had the honour of giving 
him birth, but he was the son of obscurity and 
misfortune.* He was one of those daring ad- 
venturous spirits, which Scotland beyond any 
other country is remarkable for producing, 
little does the fond mother think, as she hangs 
delighted over the sweet little leech at her bo- 
som, where the poor fellow may hereafter wan- 
der, and what may be his fate. 1 remember a 
stanza in an old Scottish ballad, which, not- 
withstanding its rude simplicity, speaks feelingly 
to the heart ; — 



* Falconer was in early life a sea-boy, to use a word 
of Shaltspeare, on board a man-of-warj in which capa- 
city he attracted the notice of Campbell, the author of 
the satire on Dr. Johnson, entitled Lexiphanes, then 
purser of the ship. Campbell took him as his servant, 
and delighted in giving him instruction; and when 
Falconer afterwards acquired celebrity, boasted of him 
as his scholar. The editor had this information from 
a surgeon of a man-of-war, in 1777, who knew both 
Campbell and F.niconer, and who him>:elf perished soon 
after by shipwreck, on the coast of America. 

Though the death of Falconer happened so lately as 
1770 or 1771, yet in the biography prefixed by Dr. An- 
derson to his works, in tlie comnlete edition of the 
Poets of Great Britain, it is sjiin, "Of the family, 
birth-place, .and education of William Falconer, there 
are no memorials." On the authority already given, 
it may be mentioned, that he was a native of one of 
the towns on the coast of Fife, and that his parents, 
who had sufffered some misfortunes, removed to one 
of the sea-ports of England, where they both died, 
ioon after, of an epidemic fever, leaving poor Fal. 
coner, then a boy, forlorn and destitute. In conse- 
quence of which he entered on board a man-of-war. 
These l.-ut circumstances are however lest certain.— 
Crom .«. I 



" Little did my mother think, 
That day she cradled me, 
What land I was to travel in, 
Or what death I should die." 

Old Scottish songs are, vou know, a favour- 
ite study and pursuit ot mine ; and now I am 
on that subject, allow me to give you two 
stanzas of another old simple ballad, which I 
am sure will please you. The catastrophe of 
the piece is a poor ruined female, lamenting 
her fate. She concludes with this pathetic 
wish : 

" O that my father had ne'er on me smiled ; 
O that my mother had ne'er to me sung ! 
O that my cradle had never been rock'd ; 
But that I had died when I was young ! 

that the grave it were my bed ; 

My blankets were my winding sheet ; 
The clocks and the worms my bedfellows a' ; 
.\nd O sae sound as I should sleep !" 

1 do not remember in all my reading to have 
met with any thing more truly the language of 
misery, than the exclamation in the last line. 
Bliseiy is like love j to speak its language truly, 
the author must have felt it. 

I am every day expecting the doctor to giv« 
your little god-son* the small-poic. They are 
rife in tiie country, and I tremble for his fate. 
By the way, I cannot help congratulating you 
on his looks and spirit. Every person who 
sees him, ;;cknowledges him to be the finest, 
liai?dsoraest child he has ever seen. I am my- 
self delighted with the manly swell of his little 
chest, and a certain miniature dignity in the 
carriage of his head, and glance of his fine black 
eye, which promise the undaunted gallantry of 
an independent mind. 

I thought to have sent you some rhymes, but 
time forbids. I promise you poetry until you 
are tired of it, next time 1 have the honour of 
assuring you how truly I am, &c. 



No. CXL. 
FROM MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

2Qth Jaiivary, 1790. 
In some inbtances it is reckoned unpardonable 
to quote any one's own words ; but the value I 
have for your friendship, nothing can more truly 
or more elegantly express, than 

" Time hut the impression stronger makes, 
As stieams their channels deeper wear," 

Having written to you twice without baring 



* The bAid'i second ion, Franoi*. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



34. 



beard from 3rou, I am apt to think my letters 
have miscarried. My conjecture is only framed 
upon the chapter of accidents turning up ac;ainst 
me, as it too often does, in the trivial, and I 
may with truth add, the more important affairs 
of life : but I shall continue occasionally to in- 
form you what is going on among the circle of 
your friends in these parts. In these days of 
merriment, I have frequently heard your name 
proclaimed at the jovial board — undpi- the roof 
of our hospitable friend at Stenhouse Mills, there 
were no 

" Lingering moments number'd with care." 

I saw your Address to the Neic-year in the 
Dumfries Journal. Of your productions I shall 
•ay nothing, but my acquaintance allege that 
when your naraa is mentioned, which every man 
of celebrity must know often happens, I am the 
champion, the I\Iendoza, against all snarling cri- 
tics, and narrow-minded reptiles, oi whom, a few 
on this planet do crawl. 

With best compliments to your wife, and her 
black-eved sister, I remain, yours, &c. 



does me the honour to mention me so kindly ia 
his works, please give him my best thanks for 
the copy of his book — I shall write him, my firii 
leisure hour. I like his poetry much, but I 
think his style in prose quite astonishing. 



No. CXLI. 
TO MR. PETER HILL. 

Ellisland, Feb. 2. 1790. 

No ! I will not say one word about apolo- 
gies or excuses for not writing — I am a poor, 
rascally ganger, condemned to gallop at least 
200 miles every wei'k to inspect dirty ponds 
and yeasty barrels, and where can I find time 
to write to, or importance to interest any body? 
The upbraidings of my conscience, nay the up- 
braidings of my wife, have persecuted me on 

your account these two or three months past 

I wish to God I was a great man, that my cor- 
respondence might throw light upon you, to 
let the world see what you really are ; and then 
I would make your fortune, without putting my 
hand in my pocket for you, which, like all other 
great men, I suppose I would avoid as much as 
possible. What are you doing, and how are you 
doing ? Have you lately seen any of my few 
friends? What is become of the borough 
KEFORM, or how is the fate of my poor name- 
Bake Mademoiselle Burns decided ? O man ! 
but for thee and thy selfish appetites, and dis- 
honest artifices, that beauteous form, and that 
once innocent and still ingenuous mind might 
have shone conspicuous and lovely in the faith- 
ful wife, and the alfectionate mother ; and shall 
the unfortunate sacrifice to thy pleasures have 
no claim on thy humanity ! 

I aaw lately in a Review, some extracts from 
ft new poem, called The Village Curate ; send 
it me. I want likewise a cheap copy of The 
World. Mr. Armstrong, the young poet, who 



Your book came safe, and I am going to trou- 
ble you with farther commissions. I call it 
troubling you — because I want only, books; 
the cheapest way, the best ; so you may have 
to hunt for them in the evening auctions. I 
want Smollett's Works, for the sake of his in- 
comparable humour. I have already Roderick 

Random, and Humphrey Clinker Peregrine 

Pickle, Launcelot Greaves, and Frederick, Count 
Fathom, I still want ; but as I said, the veriest 
ordinary copies will serve me. I am nice only 
in the appearance of my poets. I forget the 
price of Cowper's Poems, but, I believe, I must 
have them. I saw the other day, proposals for 
a publication, entitled, " Banks's new and com- 
plet Christian's Family Bible," printed for C. 
Cooke, Paternoster-row, London. — He promises 
at least, to give in the work, I think it is three 
hundred and odd engravings, to which he has 
put the names of the first artists in London.*— 
You will know the character of the perform.mce, 
as some numbers of it are published ; and if it 
is really what it pretends to be, set me down 
as a subscriber, and send me the publi!^hed 
numbers. 

Let me hear from you, your first leisure mi- 
nute, and trust me, you shall in future have no 
reason to complain of my silence. The dazzling 
perplexity of novelty will dissipate and leave mo 
to pursue my course in the quiet path of me« 
thodical routine. 



No. CXLIL 

TO MR. W. NICOLL. 

MT DEAR SIR, ElUsland, Feb. 9, 1790. 

That d-mned mare of yours is dead. I 
would freely have given her piice to have saved 



• Perhaps no set of men more eflfectually avail them, 
selves of the easy credulity of the public, th:in a cer- 
tain description of Patcrncster-row booksellers. Throe 
hundred and odd engravings !— and by Xhejirst artisti 
in London, too ! No wonder that Burns was dauled 
by the splendour of the promise. It is no unusual 
thing for this class of impostors to illustrate the Holy 
Scriptures by plates originally engraved for the HU- 
ion/ of England, and 1 have actually seen subjects Uc. 
sighed by our celebrated artist Stotliaid, from Carissa 
liarlinve ;uid the Kovclist's Magazine, cimverted, with 
incredible dexterity, by these Bookselling-Urcslawg, 
into Scriptural enil)ellislimenls .' One of these vender* 
of • Family Hibles' lately called on mo, to consult me 
profcssionallv, about a folio engraving he brought 
with him. — ^^It represented MoNs. Bupfon, seated, 
contemplating various groups of animals that sur. 
rounded him : He merely wislied, he s.iid, to be in 
formed, whether by uncloathing tlio Naturalist, aofl 



343 



BURNS' WORKS. 



her : she hat vexed me beyond description. In- 
debted as I was to your goodness beyond what 
I can ever repay, I eagerly grasped at your of- 
fer to have the mare with me. That I might 
at least shew my readiness in wishing to be 
grateful, I took every care of her in my power. 
She was never crossed for riding above half a 
score of times by me or in my keeping. I drew 
her in the plough, one of three, for one poor 
week. I refused fifty-five shillings for her, which 
was the highest bode I could squeeze for her. 
I fed her up and had her in fine order for Dum- 
fries fair ; when four or five days before the f;iir, 
ehe was seized with an unaccountable disorder 
in the sinews, or somewhere in the bones of the 
neck ; with a weakness or total want of power 
in her fillets, and in short the whole vertebrrc 
of her spine seemed to be diseased and unhinged, 
and in eight and forty hours, in spite of the two 
best farriers in the country, bhe died and be 
d-mned to her ! The farriers said that she had 
been quite strained in the fillets beyond cure be- 
fore you had bought her, and that the poor de- 
vil, though she might keep a little flesh, had 
been jaded and quite worn out with fatigue and 
oppression. While she was with me, she was 
under my own eye, and I assure you, my much 
valued friend, every thing was done for her that 
could be done ; and the accident has vexed me 
to the heart. In fact I could not pluck up spi- 
rits to write you, oji account of the unfortunate 
business. 

There is little new in this country. Our the- 
atrical company, of which you must have heard, 
leave us in a week. Their merit and character 
are indeed very great, both on the stage and in 
private life ; not a worthless creature among 
them ; and their encouragement has been ac- 
cordingly. Their usual run is from eighteen 
to twenty-five pounds a night ; seldom less than 
the one, and the house will hold no more than 
the other. There have been repeated instances 
of sending away six, and eight, and ten pounds 
in a night for want of room. A new theatre is 
to be built by subscription ; the first stone is to 
be laid on Friday first to come.* Three hun- 
dred guineas have been raised by thirty subscri- 
bers, and thirty more might have been got if 
wanted. The manager, Mr. Sutherland, was 
introduced to me by a friend from Ayr ; and a 
worthier or cleverer fellow I have rarely met 
with. Some of our clergy have slipt in by 
stealth now and then ; but they have got up a 
farce of their own. You must have heard how 
the Rev. Mr. Lawson of Kirkmahoe, seconded 
by the Rev. Mr. Kirkpatrick of Dunscore, 
and the rest of that faction, have accused in for- 
mal process, the unfortunate and Rev. Mr. He- 
ron of Kirkgunzeon, that in ordaining Mr. 
Nelson to the cure of souls in Kirkbean, he, 
the said Heron, feloniously and treasonably 



giving him a rather more resolute look, the plate could 
i.iot, at a trifling expense, be made to pass for •• Da- 
mz^ IN THE Lions' den !" — Cromek. 

• On FrMayjirtt tosomt^n Scotticism, 



bound the said Nelson to the confession of fiuth» 
so far as it was affreeable to reason and the 
word of God ! 

Mrs. B. begs to be remembered most grate- 
fully to you. Little Bobby and Frank are 
charmingly well and healthy. I am jaded to 
death with fatigue. For these two or three 
months, on an average, I have not ridden lesa 
than two hundred miles per week. I have 
done little in the poetic way. I have given Mr. 
Sutherland two Prologues ; one of which was 
delivered last week. I have likewise strung 
four or five barbarous stanzas, to the tune of 
Chevy Chase, by way of Elegy on your poor un- 
fortunate mare, beginning, — 

" Peg Nicholson was a good Bay-mare,"— 
(seep. 77.) 

My best compliments to Mrs. Nicoll, and lit- 
tle Neddy, and all the family. I hope Ned is 
a good scholar, and will come out to gather nuta 
and apples with me next harvest. 



No. CXLIII. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

ElUsland, 13<A February, 1790. 
I BEG your pardon, my dear and much valued 
friend, for writing to you on this very unfashion- 
able, unsightly sheet— 

" My poverty but not my will consents." 

But to make amends, since of modish post I 
have none, except one poor widowed half sheet 
of gilt, which lies in my drawer among my ple- 
beian foolscap pages, like the widow of a man 
of fashion, whom that unpolite scoundrel. Ne- 
cessity, has driven from Burgundy and Pine- 
apple, to a dish of Bohea, with the scandal- 
bearing Iielp-niute of a village priest ; or a glass 
of whisky-toddy, with the ruby-nosed yoke- 
fellow of a foot-padding exciseman — I make a, 
vow to enclose this sheet-full of epistolary frag- 
ments in that my only scrap of gilt-paper. 

I am indeed your unworthy debtor for three 
friendly letters. I ought to have written to you 
long ere now, but it is a literal fact, I have 
scarcely a spare moment. It is not that I will 
not write to you ; ftjiss Burnet is not more dear 
to her guardian angel, nor his grace the Duke 

of to the powers of ■ , than my 

friend Cunningham to me. It is not that I 
cannot write to you ; should you doubt it, take 
the following fragment which was intended for 
you some time ago, and be convinced that I can 
antithesize sentiment, and circumvolute periods, 
as well as any coiner of phrase in the regions of 
philology 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



S4S 



MT stAlt cowviyaRAM, December, 1789. 

Where tre you ? And what are you doing ? 
Can you be that ion of levity, who takes up a 
friendghip as he takea up a fashion ; or are you, 
like iome other of the worthiest fellows in the 
world, the victim of indolence, laden with fetters 
of ever-increasing weight. 

What strange beings we are I Since we have 
a portion of conscious existence, equally capable 
of enjoying pleasure, happiness, aud rapture, or 
of luffering pain, %rretchedness, and misery, it 
is surely worthy of an inquiry, whether there 
be not such a thing as a science of life ; whether 
method, economy, and fertility of expedients be 
sot applicable to enjoyment ; and whether there 
be not a want of dexterity in pleasure, which 
renders our little scantling of happiness still 
)eM ; and a profuseness, an intoxication in bliss 
which leads to satiety, disgust, and self-ablior- 
rence. There is^ot a doubt but that health, 
talents, character, decent competency, respecta- 
ble friends, are real substantial blessings ; and 
yet do we not daily see those who enjoy many 
or all of these good things, contrive, notwith- 
standing, to be as unhappy as others to whose 
lot few of them have fallen. I believe one great 
source of this mistake or misconduct is owing 
to a certain stimulus, with us called ambition, 
which goads us up the hill of life, not as we 
ascend other eminences, for the laudable curio- 
sity of viewing au extended landscape, but ra- 
ther for the dishonest pride of looking down on 
ethers of our fellow-creatures, seemingly dimi- 
oative, in humble stations, &c. &c 



Sunday, Mth February, 1790. 
Gob help me ! I am now obliged to join 

*' Night to day, and Sunday to the week." 

Jf there be any truth in the orthodox faith of 

these churches, I ara past redemption, 

and what is worse, ^— ^— to all eternity. I 
am deeply read in Bostnn's Fourfold State, 
Marshall on Sanctification, Gutherie's Trial of 
a Saving Interest, Sfc. but " There is no balm 
in Gilead, there is no physician there," for me ; 
so I shall e' en turn Arminian, and trust to 
" Sincere, though imperfect obedience." 



Tuesday, \6th. 
LOCKILT for me I was prevented from the 
discussion of the knotty point at which I had 
just made a full stop. All my fears and cares 
are of this world : if there is another, an honest 
man has nothing to fear from it. I hate a man 
that wishes to be a Deist, but I fear, every fair, 
unprejudiced inquirer must in some degree be a 
sceptic. It is not that there are any very stag- 
gering argumenta against the iiomortality of 



man ; but like electricity, phlogiston, lee. tha 
subject is so involved in darkness, that we want 
data to go upon. One thing frightens me much ; 
that we are to live for ever, seems too good newt 
to be true. That we are to enter into a new 
scene of existence, where, exempt from want 
and pain, we shall enjoy ourselves and our friends 
without satiety or separation — how much should 
I be indebted to any one who could fully OMurs 
me that this wait certain ! 



My time is once more expired. I will writ* 
to Mr. Cleghorn soon. God bless him and all 
his concerns ! And may all the powers that pre- 
side over conviviality and friendship, be present 
with all their kindest influence, when the bearer 
of this, Mr. Syme, and you meet ! I wish I 
could also make one. — I tliink we should be . 



Finally, brethren, farewell ! Whatsoever 
things are lovely, whatsoever things are gentle, 
whatsoever things are charitable, whatsoever 
things are kind, think on these things, and 
thbk on ROBERT BURNS. 



No. CXLIV. 

TO MR. PETER HILL. 

EUisland, 2d March, 1790. " 
At a late meeting of the Monkland Friendly 
Society, it was resolved to augment their libra* 
ry by the following books, which yen are ta 
send us as soon as possible : — The Mirror, Th* 
Lounger, Man of Feeling, Man of the World, 
(these for my own sake I wish to have by tha 
first carrier) Knox's History of the Reformat 
tion ; Hae's History of the Rebellion in 1719; 
any good History of the Rebellion in 1745 ; 
A Display of the Secession Act and Testimo- 
ny, by Mr. GiBB ; Hervcy't Meditations ; Be- 
veridge's Thoughts ; and another copy of Wat- 
son's Body of Divinity. 

I wrote to Mr. A. JIasterton three or four 
months ago, to pay some money he owed me 
into your hands, aud lately I wrote to you to 
the same purpose, but I have heard from nei- 
ther one nor other of you. 

In addition to the books I commiMioncd in 
my last, I want very much, An Index to tht 
Excise Lau's, or an abridgment of all the Sta~ 
tutes now in ftrce, relative to the Excise, by 
JuUinger Rymons : I want three copies of this 
book ; if it is now to be had, cheap or dear, get 
it for me. An honest country neighbour of 
mine wants, tcio, A Family Bible, the larger 
ihe better, but second -handed, for he does not 
choose to give above ten shillings for the book. 
I waut likewise for myself, as you can pick 
them up, eecood-handed or cheap, copies of 



su 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Otway^a Dramatic Works, JJen Jonson's, 
Dryden's, Congrette's, Wycherleifs, Vanbntgh's, 
Cihber's, or any Dramatic Works of the more 
modern — Macktin, Garrick, Foote, Cohnan, or 
Sheridan. A good copy too of Muliere, in 
French, I much want. Any other good dra- 
matic authors in that language I want also ; 
but comic authors chieflV; though I should wish 
to have Racine, Corneille, and Voltaire too. 
I am in no hurry for all, or any of these, but if 
you accidentally 'meet with Chem very cheap, 
get them for me. 

And now, to quit the dry walk of business, 
how do you do, my dear friend ? and how is 
Mrs. Hill ? I trust if now and then not so ele- 
gantli/ handsome, at least as amiable, and sings 
as divinely as ever. My good-wife too has a 
charming " wood-note wDd ;" now could we 
fou r 



I am out of all patience with this vile world, 
for one thing. IMankind are by nature benevo- 
?ent creatures ; except in a few scoundrelly in- 
stances, 1 do not think that avarice of the good 
things we chance to have, is born witli us ; but 
we are placed here amid so rouch nakedness, and 
hunger, and poverty, and want, that we are un- 
der a cursed necessity of studying seHishness, in 
order that we may exist ! Still there are, in 
every age, a few souls, that all the wants and 
woes of life cannot debase to selfishness, or even 
to the necessary alloy of Ciiution and prudence. 
If ever I am in danger of vanity, it is when I 
contemplate myself on this side of my disposi- 
tion and character. God knows I am no saint ; 
I have a whole host of foUies and sins to answer 
for ; but if I could, and I believe I do it as far 
as I can, I would wipe away all teais from all 
eyes. Adieu I 



No. CXLV. 

FROM WnXIAI^r BURNS, THE POET'S 
BROTHER. 

London, 2\st March, 1790. 

BKAK BROTHER, 

I HAVE been here three weeks come Tuesday, 
and would have written you sooner, but was not 
settled in a place of work. — We were ten days 
on our passage from Shields ; the weather being 
calm I was not sick, except one day when it 
blew pretty hard. I got into work the Friday 
after I came to town, I wrought there only 
eight days, their job being done. I got work 
again in a shop in the Strand, the next day af- 
ter I left ray former master. It is only a tem- 
porary place, but I expect to be settled soon in 
% shop to my mind, although it will be a harder 
task than I at first imagiued, for there ore such 



swarras of frt^h hands just come from the couo* 
try that the town is quite overstocked, and ex- 
cept one is a paitii-ularly good workman, (which 
you know I am not, nOr I am afraid ever will 
be), it is hard to get a place : However, I don't 
yet despair to bring up my lee-way, and shall 
endeavour if possible to sail within three or four 
points of the wind. The encouragement here is 
not what I exjiected, wages being very low ia 
proportion to the expense of living, but yet, if I 
can only lay by the money that is spent by 
others in my situation in dissipation and riot, I 
expect soon to return you the money I borrowed 
of you and live comfortably besides. 

In the mean tiine I wish you would send up 
all my best linen shirts to London, which you 
may easily do by sending them to some of your 
Edinburgh friends, to be shipped from Leith. 
Some of them are too little ; don't send any but 
what are good, and 1 wish one of my sisters 
could dnd as much time as to trim my shirts at 
the breast, for there is no such thing to be seea 
here as a plain shirt, even for wearing, which ia 
what I want these for. I mean to get one or 
two new shirts here for Sundays, but I assure 
you that linen here is a very expensive article. 
I am goinc; to write to Gilbert to send me aa 
Ayrshire cheese ; if he can spare it he will send 
it to you, and you may send it with the shirts, 
but I expect to hear from you before that time. 
The cheese I could get here ; but I will have a 
pride in eating Ayrshire cheese in London, and 
the expense of sending it will be little, as you 
are sending the shirts any how. 

I write this by J. Stevenson, in his lodgings, 
while he is.wiiting to Gilbert.. He is well and 
hearty, which is a blessing to me as well as to 
him : We were at Covent Garden chapel this 
forenoon, to hear the Ca//" preach ; he is grown 
very fit, and is as boisterous as ever.* There 
is a whole colony of Kilmarnock people here, so 
we don't want for acquaintance. 

Remember me to my sisters and all the fa- 
mily. I shall give you all the observations I 
have made on London in my next, when I shall 
have seen more of it. 

I am, dear Brother, yours, &c 

W. B. 



No. CXLVI. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, \Oth April, 1790. 
I HAVE just now, my ever-honoured friend 
enjoyed a very high luxury, in reading a paper 
of the Lomiyer. You know my national pre- 
judices. I had often read and admired the Spec- 
tator, Adventurer, Rambler, and World; but 
still with a certain regret, that they were so 



• Vvii I'oetical Address to the CalA 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



34J» 



thoroughly and entirely English. Alas ! have I 
often said to myself, what are all the boasted ad- 
vantages which my country reaps from the 
Union, that can countsrbalance the annihilation 
of her independence, and even her very name ! 
I often repeat that couplet of my favourite poet, 
Goldsmith — 

** States of native liberty possest, 

Though very poor, may yet be very blest." 

Nothing can reconcile nje to the common 
terms, " English ambassador, English court," 
&c. And I am out of all patience to see that 
equivocal character, Plastings, impeached by 
" the Commons of England." Tell me, my 
friend, is this weak prt^udice ? I believe in my 
conscience such ideas, as, " my country ; her 
independence ; ht-r honour ; the illustrious 
uames that mark tlio history of my native 
]and," Sec. — I believe the'-e, amnno; your men of 
the tvorld — men who in fact guide for the most 
part and govern our world, are looked on as so 
many modifications of wroughe-iuedness. They 
know the use of bawling out siu'h terms, to 
rouse or lead the r.AF.iiLK ; but for their own 
private use, with almost all the ahic sialesmen 
that ever existed, or now exist, wiicn they talk 
of right apd wrong, they only mean proper and 
improper ; and their measure of conduct is, not 
what they ought, but what they dare. For 
the truth of this I shall not ransack the history 
of nations, but appeal to one of the ablest judges 
of men, and himself one of the ablest men that 
ever lived — the celebrated Earl of Chesterfield. 
In fact, a man who could thoroughly controul 
his vices whenever they interfered with his in- 
terest, and who could completely put on the ap- 
pearance of every virtue as often as it suited liis 
purposes, is, on the Stanhopian plan, the perfect 
7>ian ; a man to lead nations. But are great 
abilities, complete without a flaw, and polished 
without a blemish, the standard of human ex- 
cellence ? This is certainly the staunch opinion 
of men of the world ; but I call on honour, vir- 
tue, and worth, to give the Stygian doctrine a 
loud negative ! However, this must be allowed, 
that, if you abstract from man the idea of an 
existence beyond the grave, then, the true mea- 
■nre of human conduct is proper and improper: 
Virtue and vice, as dispositions of the heart, are 
in that case, of scarcely the import and value to 
the world at large, as harmony and discord in 
the modifications of sound ; and a delicate sense 
of honour, like a nice ear for music, though it 
may sometimes give the possessor an ecstasy un- 
known to the coarser organs of the herd, yet, 
considering the harsh gratings, and inharmonic 
jars, in this ill-tuned state of being, it is odds 
but the individual would be as happy, and cer- 
tainly would be as much respected by the true 
judges of society, as it would then stand, with- 
out either a good ear or a good heart. ^ 

You must know I have just met with the 
Mirror and Lounger for the first time, and I \ 



am quite in raptures with them : I should be 
glad to have your opinion of some of the papers. 
The one I have just read, Lounger, No. 61, 
has cost me more honest tears than any thing 
I have read of a long time. M'Kenzic has been 
called the Addison of the Scots, and in my 
opinion, Addison would not be hurt at the com- 
parison. If he has not Addison's exquisite hu- 
jTiour, he as certainly outdoes him in the tender 
and the pathetic. His Man of Feeling (but I 
am not counsel-learned in the laws of criticism), 
I estimate as the first performance in its kind I 
ever saw. From what books, moral or even 
pious, will the susceptible young mind receive 
impressions more congenial to humanity and 
kindness, generosity and benevolence ; in short, 
more of all that ennobles the soul to herself, or 
endears her to others — than from the simple af- 
fecting tale of poor Harley. 

Still, with all my admiration of M'Kenzie's 
writings, I do not know if they are the fittest 
reading for a young man who is about to set 
out, as the phrase is, to make his way into life. 
Do not you think. Madam, that among the few 
favoured of Heaven in the strpcture of "their 
minds (for such there certainly are), there may 
be a purity, a tenderness, a dignity, an elegance 
of soul, which are of no use, nay, in some de- 
gree, absolutety disqualifying for the truly im- 
portant business of making a man's way into 
life. If I am not mnch mistaken, my gallant 

young friend, A , is veiy much under 

these disqualifications ; and for the young fe- 
males of a family I could mention, well may 
they excite parental solicitude, for I, a common 
acquaintance, or as my vanity will have it, an 
humble friend, have often trembled for a turn of 
mind which may render them eminently happy 
— or peculiarly miserable ! 

I have been manufacturing some verses late- 
ly ; but as I have got the most hurried season 
of excise business over, I hope to have more lei- 
sure to transcribe any thing that may show how 
much I have the honour to be, Madam, yours, 
&c. 



No. CXLVII. 
FROM MR. CUNNINGHAHL 

Edinburgh, 25th May, 1790. 

MY DE'AR BURNS, 

I AM much indebted to you for your last 
friendlv, elegant epistle, and it shall make a 
part of the vanity of jhj/ composition, to retain 
your correspondence through life. It was re- 
markable your introducing the name of Miss 
Burnet, .it a time when she was in such ill 
health ; and I am sure it will grieve your gen- 
tle heart, to hoar of her being in the last stage 
of a consumption. Alas ! that so much beauty, 
innocence, and virtue, should be nipt in tha 
tJ3 



346 



BURNS' WORKS. 



bud. Hers was the smile of cheerfulness — of 
teosibility, not of allurement ; and her elegance 
of raanncrs corresponded with the purity and 
elevation of her mind. 

How does your friendly muse ? I am sure 
she still retains her affection for you, and that 
you have many of her favours in your posses- 
sion, which I have not keen. I weary much to 
hear from you. 



I beseech you do not forget m». 



I most sincerely hope all your concerns in 
life prosper, and that your roof -tree enjoys the 
blessing^ of good health. All your friends here 
are well, among whom, and not the least, is your 
acquaintance, Cleghorn. As for myself, I am 

well, as far as will let a 

man be ; but with these I am happy. 



When you meet with my very agreeable friend 
J. Syme, give him for me a hearty squeeze, and 
bid, God bless him. 

Is there any probability of your being soon in 
E^iinburgh ? 



No. CXLVni. 
TO DR. MOORE. 
Dumfries, Excise- Office, lith July, 1790. 

SIK, 

Coming into town this morning, to attend 
my duty in this office, it being collection-day, I 
met with a gentleman who tells me he is on his 
way to London ; so I take the opportunity of 
writing to you, as franking is at present under 
a temporary death. I shall have sonic snatches 
of leisure through the day, amid our horrid bu- 
siness and bustle, and I shall improve them as 
well as I can ; but let my letter be as stupid as 
as miscellaneous as a news- 
piper, as short as a hungry grace-before-mtat, 
or as long as a law-paper in the Douglas' cause ; 
as ill-spelt as country John's billet-doux, or as 
unsightly a scrawl as Betty Byreniuckc'r's an- 
swer to it ; I hope, consiilering circumsMnccs, 
you will forgive it ; and as it will put you to no' 
expense of postage, I shall have the less reflec- 
tion about it. 

I am sadly ungrateful in not returning yiu 
my thanks for your most valuable present, Zc- 
luco. In fact, you are in soii;e degree blameable 
for my neglect. You were pleased to express a ' 
•wish for my opinion of the work, which so tlut- 
tered me, that nothing less would serve my 
orer-weening fancy, thag a formal criticism om 



the book. In fact, I have g^ravely planned A 
comparative view of you. Fielding, Richardsoo» 
and Smollett, in your different qualities and me- 
rits as novel-writurs. This, I own, betrays my 
ridii'\ilous vanity, and I may probably never 
l)ring the business to bear ; but I am fond of 
the spirit young Elihu shows in the book of 
Job — " And I said, I will also declare my opi- 
nion." I have quite disfigured my copy of the 
book with my annotations. I never take it up 
without at the same time taking my pencil, 
and marking with asterisks, parenthesis, fcc. 
wherever I meet with an original thought, a 
nervous remark on life and manners, a remark- 
ably well-turned period, or a character sketched 
with uncommon precision. 

Though I shall hardly think of fairly writing 
out my " Comparative View," I shall certainly 
trouble you with my remarks, such as they are. 
I have just received from my gentleman, that 
horrid summons in the book of Revelations— 
" That time shall be no more !" 

The little collection of sonnets have soma 
charming poetry in them. If indeed I am in- 
debted to the fair author for the book, and not, 
as I rather suspect, to a celebrated author of 
the other sex, I should certainly have written to 
the lady, with my grateful acknowledgments, 
and my own ideas of the comparative excellenco 
of her pieces. I would do this last, not from 
any vanity of thinking that my remarks could 
be of much consequence to Mrs. Smith, but 
merely from my own feelings 4M an author, do* 
ing as I would be done by. 



No. CXLIX. 
TO MR. MURDOCH, 

TEACHER OF FREKCH, LONDOK. 

MY DEAR SIR, EUisland, July 16, 1790. 

I RECEIVED a letter from you a long tima 
ago, but unfortunately as it was in the time of 
my peregrinations and journeyings through Scot- 
land, I mislaid or lost it, and by consequence 
your direction along with it. Luckily my good 
star brought me acquainted with Mr. Kennedy, 
who, I Uiidersi;and, is an acquaintance of yours : 
and Ly his means and mediation I hope to re- 
place that link which ;ny unfortunate negli- 
gence hid fo unluckily broke in the chain of 
our correspor.ilence. I was the more vexed at 
tlie vile ate (k'ut, as my brother Vv'illiam, a jour- 
neyman saddlet, has been for some time in Lon- 
don ; an<l wished above ail tilings for your di- 
rection, that he might have paid his respects to 
his fatiii-r's rniE.M.u. 

His last address he sent mo was, " \Vm. 
Hums, at Mr. Barber's, Saddler, No. 181, 
Strand." I write him by Mr. Kennedy, but 
neglected to a>k him for your address ; so, if you 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



347 



find a spare half mlnuta, please let my brother 
know by a card where and when he will find 
you, and the poor fellow will joyfully wait ou 
you, as one of the few surviving friends of the 
man whose name, and Christian name too, he 
has the honour to bear. 

The next letter I write you shall be a long 
one. I have much to tell you of " hair-brea<lth 
'scapes in th' imminent deadly breach," with 
all the eventful history of a life, the early years 
of which owed so much to your kind tutorage ; 
but this at an hour of leisure. I\Iy kindest 
compliments to Mrs. Murdoch and famiiy. 
I am ever, my dear Sir, 

Your obliged friend.* 



• 'Ihis letter was communicated to the Editor by a 
fientleman to whose liberal advice and inform.ition he 
is much indebted, Mr. John Murdoch, tlie early in- 
itnictor of the poet ; accompanied by the following 
interesting note : — 

London, Harl-Strect, Bloomsbury, ^hth Dec. 1S07. 

DB*R SIX, 

The following letter, which I lately found amoi^g 
jny papers, 1 copy for your perusal, partly because i: 
is Bums's, partly because it makes honourable men- 
tion of my rational Christian friend, his father; and 
likewise because it is rather flattering to myself. I 
glory in no one thing so much as an intimacy with 
good men ;— the friendship of others reflects no ho. 
Hour. When I recollect the pleasure, (and I hope be- 
nefit), I received from the conversation of William 
Burns, especially when on the Lord's day \vj> walked 
together for about two miles, to the house of prayer, 
there publicly to adore and praise llie Giver of all 
good, I entertain an ardent hojie, thattogelher we shall 
■' renew the glorious theme in distant worlds," wiih 
powers more adequate to the mighty subject, Tiir. i;x- 

DBERA.NT nKNF.FICENCli OF THE CHEAT CBEyVTOR. 

But to the letter :— 

FROM MR. MURDOCH TO THK B.\RD, 

GIVING HIM AV ACCOUNT OF THE DEATH OF 
HIS UROTHER WILLIAM. 

Hart-Street, B'oomsbury.Sqi'are, Condon, 
MY DEAR FRIi:Nn, sijjt. \Mh, 17U0. 

VOLRS of the IGth of July, 1 received on the Sfith, 
in the afternoon, per favour of my friend Mr. Ken- 
nedy, and at the same time was informed that your 
brother was ill. Being engaged in business till Lite 
that evening;, I set out next morning to see him, and 
had thought of three or four medionl gentlemen of my 
acquaintance, to one or other oftt'hom I might .npply 
for advice, provided it should be necessary. But when 
I went to Mr. Barber's, to my great aslonisliment anil 
heart-felt grief, I found that my young friend had, on 
Saturday, bid an everlastnig f;i'rewpll to all sublunary 
things.— It was about a forlnif,'ht before tliat he had 
found me out, by Mr. .Stevenson's aoi.'ident;illy calling 
at my shop to buy something. We had only one in- 
terview, and that w?s highly entertaining to me in se- 
veral respects. He mentior.cd some instruction 1 h.id 
given him when very young, to which he said he 
owed, in a great measure, the philanthropy he pos.ses- 
ged. — He also took notice of my exhorting you all, 
when 1 wrote, alxjut eight vcirs ago, to the man who, 
of all m.inkind that I ever knew, stood highest in my 
esteem, " not to let go your integrity." — You may ea- 
sily conceive that such conversation w.xs both pleasing 
and encouraging to mc : I .nnticipated a deal of ratio. 
nal happiness from future conversations. — Vain are our 
expectations and hopes. They are so almost always — 
Perhaps, (nay, certainly), for our good. Were it not 
for disaiipointed hopes wect>uld hardly spend a thought 
on another state of existence, or be in any degree re- 
conciled to the quitting of this. 

I know of no one source of consolation to those who 
have lost young relatives, equal to that of their being 
of a cood dispo«ition, and of a promising character. 



No. CL. 



TO MRS. DIINLOP. 

DEAR maham, Qlh August, 1790. 

After a long day's toil, plague, and care, I 
sit down to write to you. Ask rae uot why I 
have delayed it so long ? It was owing to hurry, 
indolence, and fifty other things ; in short, to 
any thing — but forgetfulness of la plus aimable 
de son scxe. By the bye, you are indebted your 
best courtesy to me for this last compliment ; 
as I pay it from sincere conviction of it* truth 
— a quality rather rare in compliments of these 
grinning, bowing, scraping times. 

Well, I hope writing to you, will ease a little 
my troubled soul. Sorely has it been bruised 
to-day ! A'ci-devant friend of mine, and an in- 
timate acqaintance of yours, has given ray feel- 
ings a wound that I perceive will gangrene dan- 
gerously ere it cure. He has wounded my pride ! 



Be assured, my dear friend, that I cordially sympa- 
thize with you all, and particularly with Mrs. W. 
Burns, who is undoubtedly one of the most tender and 
affectionate mothers that ever lived. Remember me 
to her in the most friendly manner, when you see her, 
or write. — Hle.Tse present my best compliments to Mre. 

R. Burns, and to your brother and sisters There is 

no occasion for rae' to exhort you to filial duty, and 
to u.se your united endeavours ni rendering the even- 
ing of life as comfort.able as pos.siblo to a mother, who 
has dedicated so great a fiart of it in promoting your 
teniporal and spiritual welfare. 

Vour letter to Dr. Moore, I delivered at his house, 
and shall most likely know your opinion of Zeleuco, 
the first time I meet with him. 1 wish and hope for 
a long letter. Be jiartieular about your mother*i 
health. I hope she is too much a Christian to l)e »f. 
flieted above measure, or to sorrow as those who have 
no hope. 

One of the most pleasing hopes I have is to viilt 
you all ; but I am commonly disappointed in what I 
rnost avJeatly wish for. 

1 arn, dear Sir, 

Vours sincerely, 

JOHN MURDOCH.' 

I promised myself a de.al of lunpiness in the con. 
ver.'jjijicn of my dear young friend; but mv promises 
of this nature generHlly prove fallacious. "Two vititi 
Mere the utmost th.at 1 received. At one of them, 
however, he rcjieateil ,•» lesson which I had given hira 
about twenty years before, when he was a mere child, 
conecrning the pity and tenderness due to animals. 
To that less(m, (which it seems was brought to the le. 
V(^of his capacity), he declared himself indebted for 
almost all the philanthropy he pos-sessed. 

Let not parents and teachers im^incth.tt it is need- 
less to talk .seriously to children. They are sooner fit 
to be reasoned with than is generally thought .'itrong 
and indelible impressions are to be made before the 
mind be agitated and ruffled by the numerous train of 
distracting carts and unruly passions, whereby it ii 
frequently rendered almost unsusceptible of the prin- 
ciples and precepts of rational religion and sound mo- 
rality. 

But I find myself digressing .icjain. Poor William ! 
then in the bloom and vigour ot youth, caught a pu- 
trid fever, and, in a few days, .is real chief mourDcr, 
I followed his remains to the land of forgetfulne&i. 

JOHN MURDOCH. 



Ckoxkc 



848 



BURNS' WORKS. 



No. CLI. 



TO MR. CUIVNINGHAM. 

ElMand, Sih Augtist, 1790. 

FoKCivE me my oncx' dear, and ever dear 
friend, ray seeming negligence. You cannot 
sit down, and fancy the busy life I lead. 

I laid down my E;oose feather to beat my 
brains for an apt simile, and had some thoughts 
of a country grannam at a family christening- : 
a bride on the market-day before her marriage ; 



a tavern-keeper at an election dinner ; Sec. &c. 
>— but the resemblance that hits my fancy best 
is, that blackguard miscreant, Satan, who roams 
about like a roaring lion, seeking, searching 
whom he may devour. However, tossed about 
as I am, if I choose (and who wo>i!d not choose.) 
to bind down wltH the crampets of attention, 
the brazen foundation of integrity, I may rear 
up the superstructure of Independence, and from 
its daring turrets, bid defiance to the storms of 
fate. And is not this a " consummation de- 
voutly to be wished ?" 

" Thy spirit. Independence, let me share ; 

Lord of the lion-heart, and eagle -eye! 
Thy steps I follow with my bosum bare, * 

Nor heed the storm that howls along the sky !" 

Are not these noble verses ? They are the in- 
troduction of SmoUett^s Ode to Independence : 
If you have not seen the poem, I will send it to 
you. How wretched is the man that hangs on 
by the favours of the great. To shrink from 
eveiy dignity of man, at the ajiproach of a lord- 
ly piece of self-consequence, who, amid all his 
tinsel glitter, and stately hauteur, is but a crea- 
ture formed as thou art — and perhaps not so 
well formed as thou art — came into the world 
a puling infant as thou didst, and must go out 
of it as all men must, a naked corse*. 



No. CLIL 

FROM DR. BLACKLOCK. 

Edinburgh, Ist September^ 1790. 
How does my dear friend ? — much I languish 

to hear, 
Hia fortune, relations, and all that are dear ; 



• The preecdinp letter explains the feelings under 
which this was written. The strain of indigiumt in- 
vective goes on some time loneer in the style which 
our bard was too apt to indulge, and of which the 
Kader has already seen somucti. 



With love of the Muses bo istrosigly still smitten, 

I meant this epistle in verse to have written ; 

But from age and infirmity, indolence flows. 

And this, much I fear, will restore me to prose. 

Anon to my business I wish to proceed. 

Dr. Anderson guides and provokes me to speed, 

A man of integrity, genius and worth, 

Who soon a performance intends to set forth ; 

A work miscellaneous, extensive, and free. 

Which will weekly appear, by the name of the 

Jiee. 
Of this from himself I enclose you a plan, 
And hope you will give what assistance you can 
Entangled with business, and haunted with care, 
In which more or less human nature must share, 
Some moments of leisure the ]\Iuses will claim, 
A sacrifice due to amusement and fame. 
The Bee, «'hich sucks honey from ev'ry gay 

bloom, 
With, some rays of your genius her work may 

illume. 
Whilst the flower whence her honey spontane- 
ously flows, 
As fragrantly smells, and as vig'rously grows. 

Now with kind gratulations 'tis time to con- 
clude, 

And add, your promotion is here understood ; 

Thus free from the servile employ of excise. Sir, 

We hope soon to hear you commence supervisor ; 

You then more at leisure, and free from control. 

May indulge the strong passion that reigns in 
your soul. 

But I, feeble I, must to nature give way ; 

Devoted cold death's and longevity's prey. 

From verses tho' languid my thoughts must un- 
bend, 

Tho' still I remain your affectionate friend, 
THO. BLACKLOCK. 



No. CLin. 

EXTRACT OF A LETTER 

FROJI MH. CUNNINGHAM. 

Edinburgh, \Mh October, 1790. 

I LATELY received a letter from our friend 

B , — what a charming fellow lost to 

society — born to great expectations — with su- 
perior abilities, a pure heart and untainted mo- 
rals, his fate in life has been hard indeed — still 
I am persuaded he is happy ; not like the gal- 
lant, the gay Lothario, but in the simplicity of 
rural enjoyment, unmixed w^th regrit at the re- 
membrance of " the days of other years." 

I saw Mr. Dunbar put, under the cover of 
your newspaper, Mr. ^5ood's Poem on Thom- 
son. This ])oem has suggested an idea to me 
which you alone are capable to execute : — a 
song adapted to each season of the year. The 
task is difficult, but the theme is charming: 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



m 



•honld you saoceed, 1 will undertake to get new 
music worthy of the subject. What a tine field 
for your imagination, and who is there alive can 
draw so many beauties from Nature and pastoral 
imagery as yourself? It i?, by the way, sur- 
prising that there docs not exist, so far as I 
know, a proper song for each season. We have 
songs on hunting, fishing, skaiting, and one au- 
tumnal song. Harvest Home. As your muse 
is neither spavicd nor rusty, you may mount 
the hill of Parnassus, and return with a sonnet 
in your pocket for every season. For my sug- 
gestions, if I be rude, correct me ; if imperti- 
nent, chastise me ; if presuming, despise uie. 
But if you blend all my weaknesses, and pound 
out one grain of insincerity, then am I not 
thy 

Faithful friend, &c. 



place the capital letters properly ; as to the 
punctuation, the printers do that themselves. 

I have a copy of Tarn o' Shantcr ready to 
send yon by the first opportunity : it is too 
heavy to send by post. 

I heard of Mr. Corbet lately. He, in con- 
sequence of your recommendation, is most zeal- 
ous to serve me. Please favour me soon with 
an account of yoar good folks ; if Mrs. H. 
is recovering, and the young gentleman doing 
well. 



No. CLIV. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

November, 1790. 

" As cold waters to a thirsty soul, so is good 
news ftom a far country." 

Fate has long owed me a letter of good news 
from you, in return for the many tidings of sor- 
row which I have received. In this instance 
I most cordially obey the apostle — " Rejoice 
with them that do rejoice" — for me to sing for 
joy is no new thing ; bat to preach for joy, as I 
have done in the commencement of this epistle, 
is a pitch of extravagant rapture to which I ne- 
ver rose before. 

I read your letter — I literally jumped for joy 
—How could such a mercurial creature as a poet, 
lumpishly keep his seat on the receipt of the 
best news from his best friend. I seized my 
gilt-headed Wangee rod, an instrument indis- 
pensably necessary, in my left hand, in the mo- 
ment of inspiration and rapture ; and stride, 
stride — quick and quicker — out skipt I among 
the broomy banks of Nith, to muse over my 
joy by retail. To keep v/ithin the bounds of 
prose was impossible. Mrs. Little's is a more 
elegant, but not a more sincere compliment to 
the sweet little fellow than T, extempore al- 
most, poured out to him in the following verses. 

(Sec the poem — On the Birth of a Posthumous 
Child.) 



I am much flattered by your approbation of 
my 7am o' Shanter, which you express in your 
former letter, though, by the bye, you load me 
in that said letter with accusations heavy and 
many ; -to all which I plead not gidUy ! Your 
book is, I hear, on the road to reach me. As 
to printing of poetry, when you prepare it for 
the press, you have only to apell it right, and , 



No. CLV. 
TO CRAUFORD TAIT, Esq. Edinburoh. 

DEAR SIR, JSllisland, Oct. 15, 1790. 

Allow me to introduce to your acquaintance 
the bearer, Mr. Wm. Duncan, a friend of mine, 
whom I have long known and lung loved. His 
father, whose only son he is, has a decent little 
property in Ayrshire, and has bred the young 
man to the law, in which department he comes 
up an adventurer to your good town. I shall 
give you my friend's character in two words : 
as to his head, he has talents enough, and more 
than enough for common life ; I'S to his heart, 
when nature had kneaded the kiudly clay that 
composes it, she said, " I can no more." 

Yoit, my good Sif, were born under kinder 
stars ; but your fraternal sympathy, 1 well know, 
can eater into the feelinjjs of the young man, 
who goes into life with the laudable ambition to 
do something, and to be something among his 
fellow creatures ; but whom the consciousness 
of friendless obscurity presses to the earth, aud 
wounds to the soul ! 

Even the fairest of his virtues are against 
him. That independent spirit, and that inge- 
nuous modesty, qualities inseparable from a no- 
ble mind, are, with the million, circumstances 
not a little disqualifying. \\lMt pleasure is in 
the ])Ower of the fortunate and the happy, by 
their notice aud patronage, to brighten the 
countenance and glad the heart of such depress- 
ed youth ! I am not so angry with mankind 
for their deaf economy of the purse: — The 
goods of this world cannot be divided, without 
being lessened — but why be a niggard of that 
which bestows biiss on a fellow-creature, yet 
takes nothiiig fmm our own means of enjoy- 
ment ? We wrap oui-selves up in the cloak of 
our own better-fortune, and turn aw.iy our 
eyes, lest the wants and woes of our brother- 
mortals should disturb the selfish apathy of oor 
souls ! 

I am the worst hand in the world at asking a 
favour. That indirect address, that insinuating 
implication, which, without any positive re- 
quest, plainly expresses your wish, is a talent 
not to be acquired at a plough-tail. Tell me 
then, for you can, in what periphrasis of lau. 



860 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Sa»gt, In wkal cif cumvolutloti of phrase, I shall 

envelope yet not conceal this plain story 

" My dear Mr. Tait, my fiieml Mr. Duncan, 
whom I have the pleasure of introducing to you, 
U ft young lad of your own profession, and a 
gentleman of much modesty and grt-.it worth. 
Perhaps it may be in your puwur to assist him 
m the, to him, inij)ortaut consiJoration of get- 
ting a place; but at all events, your notice and 
Acquaintance will be a very great acqnisitioii to 
him ; and I dare pledge myself that he will ne- 
ver disgrace your favour." 

You may possibly be surprised, Sir, at such 
a letter from me ; 'tis, I own, in the usual way 
of calculating these matters, more than our ac- 
quaintance entitles me tu ; but ni)' answer is 
short : Of all the men at your time of life, whom 
I knew in Edinburgh, you are the most acces- 
iiible on the side on which I have assailed yuu. 
You are very much altered indeed from what 
you were when I knew you, if generosity point 
the path you will not tread, or humanity call to 
you in vain. 

As to myself, a being to whose interest I be- 
liere you are still a well-wisher ; I am here, 
breathing at all times, thinking sometimes, and 
rhyming now and then. Every situation has its 
•hare of the cares and pains «f life, and niy situ- 
ation I am persuaded has a full ordinary allow- 
ance of its pleasures and enjoyments. 

My best compliments to your father and Miss 
Tait. If you have an opportunity, please re- 
meml^r me in the solemn league and covenant 
of friendship to iWrs. Lewis Hay. I am a 
wretch for not writing her ; but 1 am so hack- 
neyed with self-accusation in that way, that 
my conscience lies in my bosom with scarce the 
•ensibility of an oyster in its shell. Where is 
Lady M'Kenzie? wherever she is, God bless 
her ! I likewise beg leave to trouble you v.ith 
compliments to Mr. \Vm. Hamilton; jlis. Ha- 
milton and family ; and Mrs. Chalmers, when 
you are in that country. Should you meet 
with Miss Nimmo, phase remember me kindly 
to her. 



No. CLVL 
To 



DEAR SIR, 

Whsthiii in the way of my trade, I can be 
of any service to the Rev. Doctor,* is I fear very 
doubtful. Ajax's shield consisted, I think, of 
•even bull-hides and a plate of brass, which al- 
together set Hector'a utmost force at defiance. 
Alai ! I am not a Hector, and the worthy Doc- 
tor s foe* are as securely armed as Ajax was. 
Ignorance, superstition, bigotry, stupidity, ma- 
levolence, self-conceit, envy — all strongly bound 
in a masay frame of brazen impudence. Good 
CI«<1, Sir ! to such a shield, humour is the peck 



of a sparrow, aiid satire the pop-gun of a, schoola 
boy. Creation-disgracing scelerats such as they, 
God only can mend, and the devil only can pu- 
nish. In the comprehending way of Caligula, I 
wish they had all but one neck. I feel impotent 
as a child to the ardour of my wishes ! O for a 
withering curse to blast the germins of their 
wicked machinations. O for a poisonous torna- 
do, winged from the torricl zone of Tartarus, to 
sweep the spreading crop of their villainous con- 
trivances to the lowest hell ! 



LETTERS, 1791. 

No. CLYIL 
TO MR. CUxNxVINGHAM. 

ElUdand, 23d January, 1791. 

jMany happy returns of the season to you, 
my dear friend ! As many of the good thisgs of 
this lif..', as is consistent with the usual mixture 
of good and evil in the cup of Being ! 

I have just finished a poem, which you will 
receive enclosed. It is my first essay in the way 
of tales. 

I have, these several months, been hammer- 
ing at an elegy on the amiable and accomplish- 
ed JMiss Burnet. I have got, fend can get, no 
fartlier than the following fragment, on which, 
please give me your strictures. In all kinds of 
poetic composition, I set great store by your 
opinion ; but in sentimental verses, in the poe- 
try of the heart, no Roman Catholic ever set 
more value on the infallibility of the Holy Fa- 
ther than I do on yours. 

I mean the introductory couplets as text ver- 



• Dr. M'GIH of Ayr. 



ELEGY 

I 

ON THE LATE MISS BURN£T OF MOKBOOBO 

LiF£ ne'er exulted in so rich a prize, 
As Burnet, lovely from her native skies ; 
Nor envious death so triumph'd in a blow, 
As that which laid th' accomplish'd Burnet low 

Thy form and mind, sweet maid, con I forget ; 
In richest ore the brightest jewel set ! 
In thee, high Heaven above was truest shown, 
As by his noblest work the Godhead best Is 
known. 

In vain ye flaunt in summer's pride, ye groves ; 

Thou crystal streamlet with thy flowery shore; 
Ye woodland choir that chaunt your idle lores. 

Ye cease to charm ; Eliza is no more. 

Ye heathy wastes inmix'd with reedy fens, 
Ye mossy streams, with sedge and ruslie* 
stor'd, 

Ye rugged cliffs o'erhanging dreary glens. 
To you I fly, ye with my soul accord. ,,- 



CORRESPOt^DENCE. 



S51 



Pnstet Vrkote cumb'rout pride was all their 
worth, 

Shall venal lays their pompous exit hail ; 
And thou, sweet excellence ! forsake our earth, 

And not a muse in honest grief bewail. 

We saw thee shine in youth and beauty's pride, 
And virtue's light that beams beyond the 
spheres ; 

But like the sun eclips'd at morning tide, 
Thou left'st us darkling in a world of tears. 



Let me hear from you icon. Adieu ! 



No. CLVIII. 
TO MR. PETER HILL. 

17/A January, 1791 
' Take these two guineas, and place tin-: iver 

•gainst that account of yours ! u liich 

has gagged my mouth these five or six months ! 
I can as little write good things as apologies to 
the man I owe money to. O the supreme curse 
of making three guineas do the business of five ! 
Not all the labours of Hercules ; not all the He- 
brews' three centuries of Egyptian bondage were 
such an insuperable business, such an 



country. But far otherwise is the lot of the man 
of family and fortune. His early follies and ex- 
travagance, are spirit and fire ; hit consequent 
wants, are the embarrassinents of an honest fel- 
low ; and when, to remedy the matter, he has 
gained a legal commission to plunder distant 
provinces, or massacre peaceful nations, he re- 
turns, perhaps, laden with the spoils of rapine 
and murder ; lives wicked and respected, and 

dies a and a lord. — Nay, worst of all, 

alas for helpless woman ! the needy prostitute, 
who has shivered at the corner of the street, 
waiting to earn the wages of carnal prostitution, 
is left neglected and insulted, ridden down by 
the chariot-wheels of the coroneted rip, hurry- 
ing on to the guilty assignation : she, who, 
without the same necessities to plead, riots 
nightly in the same guilty trade. 

Well ! divines may say of it what they please, 
but execration is to the mind, what phlebotomy 
is to the body ; the vital sluices of both are 
wonderfully relieved by their respective evacua- 
tions. 



tank ! ! Poverty ! thou half-sister of death, thou 
cousin-german of hell ! where shall I find force 
ef execration equal to the amplitude of thy de 
merits ? Oppressed by thee, the venerable an- 
cient, grown hoary in the practice of every vir- 
tue, laden with years and wretchedness, im- 
plores a little — little aid to support his exist- 
ence, from a stony-hearted son of Mammon, 
whose sun of prosperity never knew a cloud ; 
and is by him denied aud insulted. Oppressed 
by thee, the man of sentiment, whose heart 
glows with independence, and melts with sensi- 
bility, inly pines under the neglect, or writhes 
in bitterness of soul, under the contumely of ar- 
rogant, unfeeling wealtii. Oppressed by thee, 
the son of genius, whose ill-starred ambition 
plants him at the tables of the fashionable and 
polite, must see, in suffering silence, his remark 
neglected, and his person despised, while shal- 
low greatness, in his idiot attempts at wit, shall 
meet with countenance and applause. Nor is it 
only the family of worth that have reason to 
complain of thee ; the children of fully and vice, 
though in common with thee, the offspring of 
evil, smart squally under thy rod. Owing to 
thee, the man of unfortunate disposition and ne- 
glected education, is condemned as a fool for his 
dissipation, despised and shunned as a needy 
wretch, when his follies, as usual, bring him to 
want : and when his unprincipled necessities 
drive him to dishonest practices, he is abhorred 
f» ft miicreaat, and perishes by the justice of his 



No. CLIX. 

FROM A. F. TYTLER, Esq; 

DEAR SIP., Edlnhurgh, \2th March, 1791 
]Mr. Hill yesterday put into my hands a 
sheet of Crose^s Antiquities, containing a poem 
of yours, entitled Tam o' S/ianter, a tale. The 
very high pleasure I have received from the 
perusal of this admirable piece, I feel, demands 
the warmest acknowledgments. Hill tells me 
he is to send off a packet for you this day ; I 
cannot resist therefere putting on paper what I 
must have told you in person, had I met with 
you after the recent perusal of your tale, which 
is, that I feel I owe you a debt, which, if un- 
discharged, would reproach me with ingrati- 
tude. I have seldom in my life tasted of higher 
enjoyment from any work of genius, than I have 
received from this composition ; and I am much 
mistaken, if this poem alone, had you never 
written another syllable, would not have been 
sufficient to have transmitted your name down 
to posterity with high reputation. In the in- 
troductory part, where you paint the character 
of your hero, and exhibit him at the ale-house 
ingle, with his tippling cronies, you have deli- 
neated nature with a humour and naivetS, that 
would do honour to Matthew Prior ; but when 
you describe the unfortunate orgies of the 
witches' sabbath, and the hellish scenery in 
which they are exhibited, you display a power 
of imagination, that Shakspearo himself could 
not have exceeded. I know not that I have 
ever met with a picture of more horrible faocjr 
than the following : 

" Coffins stood round like open prenee, 
That showed the dead in their iMt inmn i ' 



352 



BURNS* WORKS. 



my 



And by some devilish canhip slight, 
Each in his cauld hand held a light." 

But when I came to the succeeding iines, 
blood ran cold within me : 

" A knife a father's throat had mangled, 
Whom his aiti son of life bereft : 
The grey hairs yet stuck to the heft,'' 

And here, after the two following lines, " Wi' 
mair o' horrible and awfu'," &c. the descriptive 
part might perhaps have been better closed, than 
the four lines which succeed, which, though 
gooii in themselves, yet as they derive all their 
merit from the satire they contain, are here 
rather misplaced among the circumstances of 
pure horror.* The initiation of the young 
witch is most happily described — the eflFect of 
her charms, exhibited in the dance, on Satan 
himself — the apostrophe—" Ah, little thought 
thy reverend grannie !" — the transport of Tarn, 
who forgets his situation, and enters completely 
into the spirit of the scene, are all features of 
high merit, in this excellent composition. The 
only fault it possesses, is, that the winding up, 
or conclusion of the story, is not commensurate 
to the interest which is excited by the descrip- 
tive and characteristic painting of the preceding 
parts. — The preparation is fine, but the result 
is not adequate. But for this, perhips, you 
have a good apology — you stick to the popular 
tale. 

And now that 1 have ^ out ray mind, and 
feel a little relieved of the weight of that debt 
I owed you, let me end this desultory scroll by 
an advice : — You have proved your talent for 
a species of composition, in which but a very 
few of our own poets have socceeded — Go on 
— write more tales in the same style ; you will 
eclipse Prior and La Fontaine ; for, with equal 
wit, equal power of numbers, and equal naivetd 
of expression, you have a bolder, and more vi- 
gorous imagination. 

I am, dear Sir, with much esteem, 
Yours, &c. 



No. CLX. 



TO THE SAME. 



Nothing loss thin the unfortunate accident 
I have met with, could have prevented my 
grateful acknowledgments for your letter. Kis 
own favourite puem, ami that an essay In a 
Walk of tlie muses entirely new to him, where 
consequently his hopes ami fears were in the 
most anxious alarm tor his success in the at- 
tempt ; to have that poem so much apijlauded 
by one of the first judges, was the most delici- 
ous vibration that evor trilled along the heart- 



• Our bard profiLcd by Mr. I'ytler's criticism, and 
expunged tl.c lyji )in«5 accovdi.ngly. 



strings of a poor poet. However, provideace. 
to keep up the proper proportion of evil with 
the good, which, it seems is necessary in this 
sublunary state, thought proper to check my 
exultation by a very serious misfortune. A 
day or two after I received your letter, mjr 
horse came down with me and broke my right 
arm. As this is the first service my arm haa 
done me since its disaster, I find myself unable 
to do more than just in general terms to thank 
you for this additional instance of your patron- 
age and friendship. As to the faults you de- 
tected in the piece, tliey arc truly there : one 
of them, the hit at the lawyer and priest, I shall 
cut out ; as to the falling off in the catastrophe, 
for the reason you justly adduce, it cannot easily 
be remedied. Your approbation, Sir, has given 
me such additional spirits to persevere in this 
species of poetic composition, that I am already 
revolving two or three stories in my fancy. If 
I can bring these floating ideas to bear any kind 
of embodied form, it will give me an additional 
opportunity of assuring you how much I have 
the honour to be, &c. 



No. CLXI. 

TO MRS. DUNLOp. 

Ellisland, Ith February, 1791. 

When I tell you. Madam, that by a fall, not 
from my horse, but with my horse, I have been 
a cripple some time, and that this is the first 
day my arm and hand have been able to serve 
me in writing ; you will allow that it is too 
good an apology for my seemingly ungrateful 
silence. I am now getting better, and am able 
to rhyme a little, which implies some tolerable 
ease ; as I cannot think that the most poetic 
genius ia able to compose on the rack. 

I do not remember if ever I mentioned to you 
my having an idea of composing an elegy on 
the late Miss Burnet of Monboddo. I had the 
honour of being pretty well acquainted with 
her, and have seldom felt so much at the loss of 
an acquaintance, as when I heard that so amia- 
ble and accomplished a piece of God's works 
was no more. I have as yet gone no farther 
than the following fragment, of which please let 
me have your opinion. You know that elegy 
is a subject so much exhausted, that any new 
idea on the business is not to be expected ; 'tis 
well if we can place an old idea in a new, light. 
How far I have succeeded as to this last, you 
will judge from what follows: — (.See /). 347, 
then this additional verse), 

The parent's heart that nestled fond in thee, 
That heart how sunk, a prey to grief and 
cars ! 

So deckt the woodbine sweet yon aged tree. 
So from it ravaged, leaves it bleak and baret 

I have proceeded no further. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



S5S 



Vonr kind letter, with your kind remem- 
t>rance of your god-son, came safe. This last, 
Madam, is scarcely what my pride can bear. 
A» to the little fellow, he is, partiality apart, 
the finest boy I have of a long time seen. He 
is now seventeen months old, has the small-pox 
and measles over, has cut several teeth, and yet 
never had a grain of doctor's drugs in his 
bowels. 

I am truly happy to hear that the " little 
floweret" is blooming so fresh and fair, and that 
the " mother plant" is rather recovering her 
drooping head. Soon and well may her " cruel 
wounds'' be healed ! I have written thus far 
with a good deal of difficulty. When I get a 
little abler you shall hear farther from, 

Madam, yours, 8sc. 



No. CLXIL 



TO LADY W. M. CONSTABLE, 

ACKNOWLEDGING A PRESENT OF A VALUABLE 
SNUFF-BOX, WITH A FINE FICTUBE OF MARY, 
QUEEN OF SCOTS, ON THE LID. 

KY LADY, 

Nothing less than the unlucky accident of 
Laving lately broken my right arm, could have 
prevented me, the moment I received your lady- 
ship's elegant present by Mrs. Miller, from re- 
turning you my warmest and most grateful ac- 
knowledgments. I assure your ladyship, I shall 
set it apart ; the symbols of religion shall only 
be more sacred. In the moment of poetic com- 
position, the box shall be ray inspiring genius. 
"When I would breathe thd comprehensive wish 
of benevolence for the happiness of others, I 
shall recollect your ladyship ; when I would in 
terest my fancy in the distresses incident to hu- 
manity, I shall remember the unfortunate IVIary 



No. CLXIII. 
TO MRS. GRAHAM, OF FINTRY. 

MADAM, 

Whether it is that the story of our Mary, 
Queen of Scots, has a peculiar effect on the 
feelings of a poet, or whether I hive, in the en- 
closed ballad, succeeded Ixjyond mv usual poetic 
success, I ki-.ow not : but it his pleai^fd nie be- 
yond any effort of my muse for a good while 
past ; on that account I enclose it p:irticularly 
to you. It is true, the purity of my motivea 
may be suspected. 1 uni alieady deeply iinli'ht- 

■ ed to Mr. G 's gnodness; ami, what in 

the usual ways of men, is of iufinittly greater 



importance, Mr. G. can do me serrice of the 
utmost importance iu time to come. I was 
born a poor dog ; and however I mav occasion- 
ally pick a better bone than I used to do, I 
know I must live and die poor ; but I will in- 
dulge the flattering faith that my poetry will 
considerably outlive my poverty ; and without 
any fustain aflectation of spirit, I can promise and 
affirm, that it must be no ordinary craving of 
the latter shall ever make me do any thing in- 
jurious to the honest fame of the former. What- 
ever may be my failings, for failings are a part 
of human nature, may they ever be those of a 
generous heart, and an independent mind. It 
is no fault of mine that I was born to depen- 
dence ; nor is it Jlr. G 's chiefest praise 

that he can command influence ; but it his me- 
rit to bestow, not only with the kindness of a 
brother, but with the politeness of a gentleman ; 
and I trust it shall be mine, to receive with. 
thankfulness and i^member with undiminished 
gratitude. 



No. CLXIV. 

FROM THE REV. (NOW PRINCIPAL)' 
BAIRD. 

SIR, London, 8th February, 1791. 

T TROUBLE you with this letter, to inform 
you that I am in hopes of being able very soon 
to bring to the press a new edition (long since 
talked of) of Michael Bruce's Poems. The 
profits of the edition are to go to his mother — . 
a woman of eighty years of age — poor and help- 
less. The poems are to be published by sub- 
scription ; and it may be possible, I think, to 
make out a 2s. 6d. or 3s. volume, with the as- 
si>tance of a few hithetto unpublished verses, 
which I have got from the mother of the poet. 

But the design I have in view in writing to 
you, is not merely to inform you of these facts, 
it is to solicit the aid of your name and pen in 
support of the scheme. The reputation of Bruce 
is already high with every reader of classical 
taste, and I shall be anxious to guard against 
tarnishing his character, by allowing any new 
poems to appear that may lower it. For this 
purpose, the MSS. I am in possession of, have 
been submitted to the levision of some whose 
critical talents I can trust to, and I mean still to 
submit them to others. 

May I hejj to know, therefore, if you will 
take the tioiihle of perusing the MSS. — of giv- 
ing your (i|)inion. aiKi sugge>tirig what curtail- 
nieiits, alterations, or amendments, occur to you 
as advisable ? And will you allow us to let it be 
kniiivn, that a few lines by you will be added 
to the volume ? 

1 kiKiw the extent of this request...— It '\% 
hold t'l ni.ike it. iSut 1 have this coniolation, 
l;.dt though yiiu see it [uoper to refuse it, you 



»&4 



BURNS' WORKS. 



>riU not blame hie for b&viflg maoc . : jrou will 
tf my apology in the motivt. 

May I just add, that Michael Bruce is one in 
whote company, from his past appearance, you 
Would not, I am convinced, blush to be found ; 
and at 1 would submit every line of his that 
■hould now be published, to your own criti- 
eisms, you would be assured that nothing dero- 
gatory either to him or you, would be admitted 
in that appearance he may make in future. 

You have already paid an honourable tribute 
to kindred genius in Fergusson — I fondly hope 
that the mother of Bruce will experience your 
patronage. 

I wish to have the subscription papers circu- 
lated by the 14th of March, Bruce's birth-day; 
which, I understand, some friends in Scotland 
talk this year of observing — at that time it will 
be resolved, I imagine, to place a plain, humble 
stone over his grave. This, at least, I trust 
you will agree to do — to furnish, in a few coup 
lets, an inscription for it. 

On those points may I solicit an answer as 
eaily as possible ; a short delay might disap- 
point us in procuring that relief to the mother, 
which is the object of the whole. 

You will be pleased to address for me under 
eorcr to the Duke of Athole, London. 



appeJUtion), that by w»y of mm* balanec, W- 
ever trifling, ia the account, I affl fain to do aaf 
good that occurs in tny Very limited power to • 
fellow-creature, just for the selfish purpose of 
clearing a little the vista of retrospection. 



' P. S. — Have you ever seen an engraving 
published here some time ago from one of your 
poems, " O thou Pale Orb." If you have 
not, 1 shall have the pleasure of sending it to 
jrott. 



No. CLXV. 
TO THE REV. G. BAIRD, 

IM AKSWXK TO THS fORKOOlKO. 



Why did you, my dear Sir, write to me in 
•ueh a hesitating style, on the business of poor 
Bruce? Don't I know, and have I not felt, 
the many ills, the peculiar ills that poetic flesh 
is heir to ? You shall have your choice of all 
the unpublished poems I have ; and had your 
letter had my direction so as to have reached 
me sooner (it only came to my hand this mo- 
ment), I should have directly put you out of 
suspense on the subject. I only ask, that some 
prefatory advertisement in the book, as well as 
the subscription bills, may bear, that the publi- 
cation is sok-ly for the benefit of Bruce's mo- 
ther. I would not put it in the power of igno- 
rance to surmise, or malice to insinuate, that I 
clubbed a share in the work from mercenary 
motives. Nor need you give me credit for any 
remarkable generosity in my part of the busi 
ness. I have such a host of peccadilloes, fail 
iogs, follies, and backslidings (anj- body but my 
fiii might perhaps giv« some of them a worse 



No. CLXVI. 
TO THE REV. ARCH. ALISON. 
Elliiland, near Dumfries, lith Feb, 1791. 

SIR, 

You must, by this time, have set me down 
as one of the most ungrateful of men. You 
did me the honour to present me with a book 
which does honour to science and the intellectual 
powers of man, and I have not even so much ae 
acknowledged the receipt of it. The fact i^ 
you youi-self are to blame for it. Flattered as 
I was by your telling me that you wished to 
have my opinion of the work, the old spiritual 
enemy of mankind, who knows well that vanity 
is one of the sins that most easily beset me, put 
it into my head to ponder over the performance 
with the look-out of a critic, and to draw up 
forsooth a deep learned digest of strictures on a 
composition, of which, in fact, until I read the 
book, I did not even know the first principles. 
I own, Sir, that at first glance, several of your 
propositions startled me as parad^oxical. That 
the martial clangor of a trumpet had something 
in it vastly more grand, heroic, and sublime, 
than the twingle twangle of a Jews' harp ; that 
the delicate flexure of a rose-twig, when the 
half-blown flower is heavy with the tears of th« 
dawn, was infinitely more beautiful and elegant 
than the upright stub of a burdock ; and that 
from something innate and independent of all 
association of ideas ; — these I had set down as 
irrefragible, orthodox truths, until perusing your 
book shook my faith.— In short. Sir, except 
Euclid's Elements of Geometry, which I made 
a shift to unravel by my father's fire-side, in the 
winter evening of the first season I held the 
plough, I never read a book which gave me 
such a quantum of information, and added so 
much to my stock of ideas as your " Essays on, 
the Princiyles of Taste." One thing, Sir, you 
must forgive my mentioning as an uncommon 
merit in the work, I mean the language. To 
clothe abstract philosophy in elegance of style, 
sounds something like a contradiction in terms ; 
but you have convinced me that they are quite 
compatible. 

I enclose you some poetic bagatelles of mjr 
late composition. The one in print is my first 
essay in the way of telling a tale. 

I am, Sir, lie. 



G6RRESP0^fDENCE. 



S65 



No. CLXVII. 



TO DR. MOORE. 

EUisIand, 28 <A February, 1791. 

I DO not know, Sir, whether you are a sub- 
scriber to Grosf's Antiquities of Scotland. If 
you are, the enclosed poem will not be altoge- 
ther new to you. Captain Grose did me the 
favour to send me a dozen copies of the proof- 
sheet, of which this is one. Should you have 
read the piece before, still this will answer the 
principal end I have in view : it will give me 
another opportunity of thanking you for all your 
goodness to the rustic bard ; and also of show- 
ing you, that the abilities you have been pleas- 
ed to commend and patronize are still employed 
in the way you wish. 

The Elegy on Captain Henderson, is a tri- 
bute to the memory of a man I loved much. 
Poets have in this the same advantage as Ro- 
man Catholics ; they can be of service to their 
friends after they have past that bourne where 
all other kindness ceases to be of any avail. 
Whether, after all, either the one or the other 
be of any real service to the dead, is, I fear, very 
problematical; but lam sure they are highly 
gratifying to the living : and as a very orthodox 
text, I forget where in Scripture, says, " what- 
soever is not of faith, is sin ;" so say I, what- 
soever is not detrimental to society, and is of 
positive enjoyment, is of God, the giver of all 
good things, and ought to be received and en- 
joyed by his creatures with thankful delight. 
As almost all my religious tenets originate from 
my heart, I am wonderfully pleased with the 
idea, that I can still keep up a tender inter- 
course with the dearly beloved friend, or still 
more dearly beloved mistress, who is gone to 
the world of spirits. 

The ballad on Queen IMary was begun while 
I was busy with Percy's Reliques of English 
Poetry. By the way, how much is every 
honest heart, which has a tincture of Caledonian 
prejudice, obliged to you for your glorious story 
of Buchanan and Targe. 'Twos an unequivocal 
proof of your loyal gallantry of soul, giving Targe 
the victory. I should have been mortified to 
'the ground if you had not. 



I have just read over, once more of many 
times, your Zeluco. I marked with my pen- 
cil, as I went along, every passage that pleased 
me particularly above the rest; and one, or 
two, I think, which, with humble deference, I 
am disposed to think unequal to the merits of 
the book. I have sometimes thought to tran- 
•cribe these marked passages, or at least so much 
of them as to point where they are, and send 
them to you. Original strokes that strongly 
depict the human heart, is your and Fielding's i 
province, beyond any other novelist I have ever 
perused. Richardson indeed might perhaps be 
excepted; but, unhappily, his dramatis per-\ 



ionce are beings of some other Wotld ; and how- 
ever they may captivate the unexperienced, ro- 
mantic fancy of a boy or a girl, they will ever, 
in proportion as we have made human nature 
our study, dissatisfy our riper minds. 

As to my private concerns, I am going on, a 
mighty tax-gatherer before the Lord, and have 
lately had the interest to get myself ranked oa 
the list of excise as a supervisor. I am not yet 
employed as such, but in a few years I shall fall 
into the file of supervisoi-ship by seniority. I 
have had an immense loss in the death of the 
Earl of Glencairn ; the patron from whom all 
my fame and good fortune took its rise. Inde- 
pendent of my grateful attachment to him, 
which was indeed so strong that it pervaded . 
ray very soul, and was entwined with the thread 
of ray existence ; so soon as the prince's friends 
had got in (and every dog, you know, has his 
day), my getting forward in the excise would 
have been an easier business than otherwise it 
will be. Though this was a consummation de- 
voutly to be wished, yet, thank Heaven, I caa 
live and rhyme as I am ; and as to my boys, 
poor little fellows ! if I cannot place them on 
as high an elevation in life as I could wish, I 
shall, if I am favoured so much of the Disposer 
of events as to see that period, fix them on as 
broad and independent a basis as possible. A- 
mong the many wise adages which have beea 
treasured up by our Scottish ancestors, this it 
one of the best. Better be the head of the com- 
monally, as tlie tail o' the gentry. 

But 1 am got on a subject, which, however 
interesting to me, is of no manner of conse- 
quence to you ; so 1 shall give you a short poem 
on the other page, and close this with assuring 
you how sincerely I have the honour to be, 
yours, &c. 

, (Beauteous Rost-Bud, p. 36.) 



No. CLXVm. 

EXTRACT OF A LKTTXK 

TO MR. CUNNINGHA5I 

I2th March, 1791. 
If the foregoing piece be worth your stric- 
tures let me have them. For my own part, a 
thing that I have just composed, always appears 
through a double portion of that partial medium 
in which an author will ever view his own 
works. I believe, in general, novelty has some- 
thing in it that inebriates the fancy, and not 
unfrequently dissipates and fumes away like 
other intoxication, and leaves the poor patient, 
as usual, with an aching heart. A striking 
instance of this might be adduced, in the revo- 
lution of many a hymeneal honeymoon. But 



S56 



BURNS* WORKS. 



lest I sink into stupid prose, and so sacrilegious- 
ly intrude on the office of my parish priest, I 
shall fill up the page in my own way, and give 
you another song of my late composition, which 
will appear, perhaps, in Johnson's work, as well 
as the former. 

You must know a beautiful Jacobite air, 
There'll never he peace till Jamie comes home. 
When political combustion ceases to be the ob- 
ject of princes and patriots, it then, you know, 
becomes the lawful prey of historians and poets. 

(See Songs, p. 236). 



If you like the air, and if the stanzas hit your 
fancy, you cannot imagine, my dear friend, how 
much you would oblige me, if, by the charms 
of your delightful voice, you would give my 
honest effusion to " the memory of joys that are 
past," to the few friends whom you indulge in 
that pleasure. But I have scribbled on 'till I 
hear the clock has intimated the near approach 
of 

" That hour o' night's black arch the key- 
stane." — 

So good night to you ! Sound be your sleep, 
and delectable your dreams ! Apropos, how do 
you like this thought in a ballad, I have just 
now on the tapis ? 

I look to the west, when I gae to rest, 
^ That happy my dreams and my slumbers may 

be: 
For far in the west is he I lo'e best— 
The lad that is dear to my baby and me ! 



Good night, once more, and God bless you ! 



No. CXLIX. 
TO MR. ALEXANDER DALZIEL,» 

VACTOR, FINSLAYSTON. 

Ellisland, March 19, 1791. 

MT DXAR SIR, 

I HAVB taken the liberty to frank this letter 
to you, as it encloses an idle poem of mice, 



which I send you ; and God knoWs you fflajr 
perhaps pay dear enough for it if you read it 
through. Not that this is ray own opinion ; but 
an author, by the time he has composed and 
corrected his work, has quite pored away all 
his powers of critical discrimination. 

I can easily guess from my own heart, what 
you have felt on a late most melancholy event. 
God knows what I have suffered, at the loss of 
my best friend, my first, my dearest patron and 
benefactor ; the man to whom I owe all that I 
am and have I I am gone into mourning for 
him, and with more sincerity of grief than I 
fear some will, who by nature's ties ought to 
feel on the occasion. 

I will be exceedingly obliged to you indeed, 
to let me know the news of the noble family, 
how the poor mother and the two sisters sup- 
port their loss. I had a packet of poetic baga- 
telles ready to send to Lady Betty, when I saw 
the fatal tidings in the newspaper. I see by the 
same channel that the honoured remains of my 
noble patron, are designed to be brought to the 
family burial place. Dare I trouble you to let 
me know privately before the day of interment, 
that I may cross the country, and steal among 
the crowd, to pay a tear to the last sight of my 
ever revered benefactor ? It will oblige me be- 
yond expression. 



No. CL. 

FROM DR. MOORE. 

DEAR SIR, London, 29th March, 1791. 

Your letter of the 28th of February I recei- 
ved only two days ago, and this day I had the 
pleasure of waiting on the Rev. Mr. Baird, at 
the Duke of Athole's, who had been so obliging 
as to transmit it to me, with the printed verses 
on AUoicay Church, the Elegy on Captain 
Henderson, and the Epitaph, There are many 
poetical beauties in the former : what I particu- 
larly admire are the three striking similes from 

" Or like the snow falls in the river," 

and the eight lines which begin with 

" By this time he was cross the ford ;*' 

so exquisitely expressive of the superstitious im- 
pressions of the country. And the twenty-two 
lines from 

" Coffins stood round like open presses," 



• This gentleman, the factor, or steward, of Burns's 
noble friend, Lord Glencairn, with a view to encourage 
a second edition of the poems, laid the volume before 
his lordship, with such an account of the rustic bard's 
situation and prospects as from his slender acquaint- 
ance with him he could furnish The result, as com- 
municated to Burns by Mr. Dalziel, is highly creditable 
to the character of Lord Glencairn. After reading the 
book, his lordship declared that its merits greatly ex- 
ceeded his expectation, and he took it with him as a 
fittrarj/ curiotity to Edinburgh, He repeated his 



wishes to be of service to Burns, and desired Mr. Dal- 
ziel to inform him, that in patronizing the book, ush- 
ering it with effect into the world, or treating with 
the Dooksellers, he would most willingly give every 
aid in his power ; adding his request that Rums would 
take the earliest opportunity of letting him know in 
what way or manner he could best further his interests. 
He also expressed a wish to see some of the unpub- 
lished manuscripts, with a view to establishing his cha> 
racter with the world.— Cbo.mek, 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



357 



which, in my opinion, are equal to the ingre- 
dients of Shakspeare's cauldron iu Macbeth. 

As for the JElegy, the chief merit of it con- 
sists in the very graphical description of the ob- 
jects belonging to the country in which the poet 
writes, and which none but a Scottish poet 
could have described, and none but a real poet, 
and a close observer of Nature, could have so 
described. 



There is something original, and to me wonder- 
fully pleasing, in the Epitaph. 

I remember you once hinted befoi'e, what you 
repeat in your last, that you had made some re- 
marlcs on Zcluco, on the margin. I should be 
very glad to see them, and regret you did not 
send them before the last edition, which is just 
published. Pray transcribe theui for me, I sin- 
cerely value your opinion very highly, and pray 
do not suppress one of those in which you cen- 
sure the sentiment or expression. Trust me it 
will break no squares between us — I am not 
akin tp the Bishop of Grenada. 

I must now mention what has been on my 
mind for some time : I cannot help thinking 
you imprudent iu scattering abroad so many 
copies of your verses. It is most natural to 
give a few to confidential friends, particularly 
to those who are connected with the subject, 
or who are perhaps themselves the subject, but 
this ought to be done under promise not to give 
other copies. Of the poem you sent me on 
Queen Mary, I refused every solicitation for 
copies, but I lately saw it in a newspaper. i\Iy 
motive for cautioning you on this subject is, 
that I wish to engage you to collect all your 
fugitive pieces, not already printed, and after 
they have been re-considered, and polished to 
the utmost of your power, I would have you 
publish them by another subscription ; iu pro- 
moting of which I will exert myself with plea- 
sure. 

In your future compositions, I wish you 
would use the modern English. You have 
shown your powers in Scottish sufficiently. 
Although in certain subjects it gives additional 
zest to the humour, yet it is lost to the Eng- 
lish ; and why should you write only for a part 
of the island, when you can command the ad- 
miration of the whole. 

If you chance to write to my friend Mrs. 
Dunlop of Dunlop, I beg to be affectionately 
remembered to her. She must not judge of the 
warmth of my sentiments respecting her, by the 
number of my letters ; I hardly ever write a line 
but on business : and I do not know that I 
should have scribbled all this to you, but for the 
business part, that is, to instigate you to a new 
publication ; and to tell you that when you 
think you have a sufficient number to make a 
volume, you should set your friends on getting 
subscriptions. I wish I could have a few hours 
conversation with you — I have many things to 
say which I cannot write. If I ever go to Scot- 



land, I will let you know, that you may meet 
me at your own house, or my friend Mrs. Ha« 
milton's, or both. 

Adieu, my dear Sir, he 



No. CLI. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

EUidand, Uth April, 1791. 
I AM once more able, my honoured friend, to 
return you, with my own hand, thanks for the 
many instances of your friendship, and particu- 
larly for your kind anxiety in this last disaster 
that my evil genius had in store for me. How- 
ever, life is chequered — joy and sorrow — for 
on Saturday morning last, Mrs. Burns made 
me a present of a fine boy ; rather stouter but 
not so handsome as your god-son was at his time 
of life. Indeed I look on your little namesake 
to be my chef d'oeuvre in that species of manu- 
facture, as I look on Tarn o' Shanter to be my 
standard performance in the poetical line. 'Ti« 
true, both the one and the 6ther discover a spice 
of roguish waggery, that might, perhaps, be as 
well spared ; but then they also show, in my o- 
pinion, a force of genius, and a finishing polish, 
that I despair of ever excelling. Mrs. Burns 
is getting stout again, and laid as lustily about 
her to-day at breakfast, as a reaper from the 
corn-ridge. That is the peculiar privilege and 
blessing of our hale, sprightly damsels, that are 
bred among the hay and heather. We cannot 
hope for that highly polished mind, that charm- 
ing delicacy of soul, which is found among the 
female world in the more elevated stations of 
life, and which is certainly by far the most be- 
witching charm in the famous cestus of Venus. 
It is indeed such an inestimable treasure, that 
where it can be had in its native heavenly pu- 
rity, unstained by some one or other of the 
many shades of affectation, and unalloyed by 
some one or other of the many species of ca- 
price, I declare to Heaven, I should think it 
cheaply purchased at the expense of every other 
earthly good ! But as this angelic creature is, 
I am afraid, extremely rare in any station and 
rank of life, and totally denied to such an hum- 
ble one as mine ; we meaner mortals roust put 
up with the next rank of female excellence— 
as fine a figure and face we can produce as any 
rank of life whatever ; rustic, native grace ; un- 
affected modesty, and unsullied purity ; nature's 
mother-wit, and the rudiments of taste ; a sim- 
plicity of soul, unsuspicious of, because unac 
quainted with, the crooked ways of a sclfislv 
interested, disingenuous world ; — and the dear- 
est charm of all the rest, a yielding sweetness 
of disposition, and a generous warmth of heart, 
grateful for love on our part, and ardently glow- 
ing with a more than equal returji ; these, 
with a healthy framei a sound vigoroiu couti* 



358 



BURNS' WORKS. 



tntion, which your high ranks can scarcely ever 
hope to enjoy, are the charm* of lovely woman 
in my humble walk of life. 

This is the greatest eflFort my broken arm has 
yet made. Do, let me hear by first post, how 
cher petit Monsieur comes on with his small- 
pox. May Almighty Goodness preserve and re- 
store him ! 



No. CLII. 
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

UthJune, 1791. 

Let me interest you, my dear Cunningham, 
in behalf of the gentleman, who waits on you 
with this. He is a Mr. Clarke, of Moffat, 
principal schoolmaster there, and is at present 

suffering severely under the of 

one or two powerful individuals of his em- 
ployers. He is accused of harshness to . 

that were placed nndet his care. 
God help the teacher, if a man of sensibility 
and genius, and such is my friend Clai'ke, 
when a booby father presents him with his 
booby son, and insists on lighting up the rays 
of science, in a fellow's head whose skull is im- 
pen'ious and inaccessible by any other way 
than a positive fracture with a cudgel ; a fellow 
whom, in fact, it savours of impiety to attempt 
making a scholar of, as he has been marked a 
blockhead in the book of fate, at the almighty 
fiat of his Creator. 

The patrons of Moffat school are, the mi- 
nisters, magistrates, and town-council of Edin- 
burgh, and as the business comes now before 
them, let me beg my dearest friend to do every 
thing in his power to serve the interests of a 
man of genius and worth, and a man whom I 
particularly respect and esteem. You know 
some good fellows among the magistracy and 

council, but 

particularly, you have much to say with a re- 
X'erend gentleman to whom you have the ho- 
nour of being very nearly related, and whom 
his .country and age have had the honour to 
produce. I need not name the historian of 
Chartes V.* I tell him, through the medium 
of his nephew's influence, that Air. Clarke is a 
gentleman who will not disgrace even his pa- 
tronage. I know the merits of the cause tho- 
roughly, and say it, that my friend is falling 
a sacrifice to prejudiced ignorance, and . . 
. . . God help the children of dependence ! 
Hated and persecuted by their enemies, and too 
often, alas ! almost unexceptionably, received by 
their friends with disrespect and reproach, under 
the thin disguise of cold civility and humiliating 
advice. O to be a sturdy savage, stalking in 
the pride of his independence, amid the solitary 

L t I>i>.R«bBrt*on >rai uncle to ^Ui Cvuuuofiluun. 



wilds of his deserts, rather than ift civilized life, 
helplessly to tremble for a subsistence, precari.. 
0U8 as the cajnice of a fellow-creature ! Every 
man has his virtues, and no man is without hi*. 
failings ; and curse on that privileged plain- 
dealing of fiit-ndship, which in the hour of my 
calamity, cannot reach forth the helping hand 
without at the same time pointing out those 
failings, and apportioning them their share ia 
procuring my present distress. My friends, for 
such the world calls ye, and such ye think your- 
selves to be, pass by virtues if you please, but 
do, also, spare ray follies : the first will witnesa 
in my breast for themselves, and the last will 
give pain enough to the ingenuous mind with> 
out you. And since deviating more or less from 
the paths of propriety and rectitude, must be 
incident to human nature, do thou, fortune, 
put it in my power, always from myself, and 
of myself, to bear the consequences of those 
errors. I do not want to be independent that 
I may sin, but I want to be independent in my 
sinning. 

To return in this rambling letter to the sub- 
ject I set out with, let me recommend my friend, 
Mr. Clarke, to your acquaintance and good of- 
fices ; his worth entitles him to the one, and 
his gratitude will merit the other. I long mucb 
to hear from you. Adieu, 



No. CLIII. 

FROM THE EARL OF BUCHAN. 

Dnjburgh Abbey, Mth June, 1791. 
Lord Buchan has the pleasure to invite Mr. 
Burns to make one at the coronation of the bust 
of Thomson, on Ednam Hill, on the 22d of Sep- 
teraber ; for which day perhaps his muse may 
inspire an ode suited to the occasion. Suppose 
Mr. Burns should, leaving the Nith, go across 
the country, and meet the Tweed at the nearest 
point from his farm — and, wandering along the 
pastoral banks of Thomson's pure parent stream, 
catch inspiration on the devious walk, till he 
finds Lord Buchan sitting on the ruins of Dry- 
burgh. There the commendator will give him 
a hearty welcome, and try to light his lamp at 
the pure flame of native genius, upon the altar 
of Caledonian virtue. This poetical perambu- 
lation of the Tweed, is a thought of the late 
Sir Gilbert Elliot's and of Lord Minto's, follow- 
ed out by his accomplished grandson, the pre- 
sent Sir Gilbert, who, having been with Lord 
Buchan lately, the project was renewed, and 
will, they hope, be executed in the maimer pro« 
posed. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



959 



No, CXIV. 
TO THE SAME. 
anr lorb, 

Lahguaoe sinks under tbe ardour of tny 
iJeclingB, when I would thank your lordship for 
the honour you have done nie in inviting zne 
to make one at the coronation of the bust of 
Thomson. In my first enthusiasm in reading 
the card you did me the honour to write me, I 
orerlooked every obstacle, and determined to go ; 
but I fear it will not be in my power, A week 
or two's absence, in the very middle of my har- 
vest, is what I much doubt I dare not venture 
on. 

Your lordship hints at an ode for the occa- 
sion : but who would write after Collins ? I 
read over his verses to the memory of Thomson, 
and despaired. — I got indeed to the length of 
three or four stanzas, in the way of address to 
the shade of the bard, on crowning bis bust. 
I shall trouble your lordship, with the subjoin- 
ed copy of them, which, I am afraid, will be 
but too convincing a proof how unequal I am 
to the task. However, it affords me an oppor- 
tunity of approaching your lordship, and declar- 
ing how sincerely and gratefully I have the ho- 
nour to be, &c 

(Seep. 55.) 



No. CLV. 
TO MR. THOMAS SLOAN, 

, CABX OF WM. XENMZDT, ZSQ, MANCUZSTZK, 

Ellisland, Sept. 1, 1791. 

MT CZAR CLOAK, 

Suspense is worse than disappointment, for 
that reason I hurry to tell you that I just now 
learn that Mr, Ballantine does not choose to in- 
terfere more in the business. I am truly sorry 
for it, but cannot help it. 

You blame me for not writing you sooner, 
but you will please to recollect that you omit- 
ted one little necessary piece of information ; — 
your address. 

However you know equally well, my hurried 
life, indolent temper, and strength of attach- 
ment. It must be a longer period than the 
longest life " in the world's hale and undege- 
nerate days," that will make me forget so dear 
ft friend as Mr. Sloan. I am prodigal enough 
ftt times, but I will not part with such a trea- 
sure as that. 

I can easily enter into the embarras of your 
present situation. You know my favourite quo- 
tation from Young — 

" On Reason build Rzsolve ! 



Tbftt coliusa of true majesty m num.".— 



And that other favonrite one from Thomsoa't 
Alfred— 

" What proves the hero truely okzat, 
Is, never, never to despair." 

Or, shall I quote you an author of your ao> 
quaintance ? 

« — Whether doing, sdffzrimo, or forszak- 

INO, 

You may do miracles by — fcrszyzrimg.** 

I have nothing new to tell you. The few 
friends we have are going on in the old way. I 
sold my crop on this day se'night, and sold it 
very well. A guinea an acre, on an average, 
above value. But such a scene of drunkenness 
was hardly ever seen in tliis country. After 
the roup was over, about thirty people engaged 
in a battle, every man for his own hand, and 
fought it out for three hours. Nor was the 
scene much better in the house. No fighting, 
indeed, but folks lying drunk on the floor, and 
decanting, until both my dogs got so drunk bjr 
attending them, that they could not stand. 
You will easily guess how I enjoyed the scene ; 
as I was no farther over than you used to sec 
me. 

Mrs. B. and family have been in Ayrthirt 
these many weeks. 

Farewell ! and God bless you, my dear Friend ! 



No. CLVI. 
FROM THE EARL' OF BUCHAN.' 
Dryhurgh Abbey, \Qth September, 1791. 

SIR, 

Your address to the shade of Thomson has 
been well received by the public ; and though I 
should disapprove of your allowing Pegasus to 
ride with you off the field of your honourable 
and useful profession, yet I cannot resist an im- 
pulse which I feel at this moment to suggest to 
your muse, Harvest Home, as an excellent sub- 
ject for her grateful song, in which the peculiar 
aspect and manners of our country might fur- 
nish an excellent portrait and landscape of Scot- 
land, for the employment of happy moments of 
leisure and recess, from your more important 
occupations. 

Your Halloween, and Saturday Niyht, will 
remain to distant posterity as interesting pic- 
tures of rural innocence and happiness in your 
native country, and were happily written in the 
dialect of the people ; but Harvest Home being 
suited to descriptive poetry, except where collo- 
quial, may escape disguise of a dialect which ad- 
mits of no elegance or dignity of expression. 
Without the assistance of any god or goddess, 
and without the invocation of any foreign muse, 
you may convey ia epistolary form the deKrip* 



380 



BURNS' WORKS. 



tion of a scene so glaftdenin^ and picturesque, 
with all the concomitant local position, land- 
scape and costume ; contrasting the peace, im- 
provement, and happiness of tho borders of the 
once hostile nations of Britain, with their former 
oppression and misery, and showini^, in lively 
and beautiful colours, the beauties and joys of a 
rural life. And as the unvitiated heart is na- 
turally disposed to overflow in gratitude in the 
xnoment of prosperity, such a subject would fur- 
nish you with an amiable opportunity of perpe- 
tuating the names of Glencairn, M'llor, and 
your other eminent benefactors ; which from 
■what I know of your spirit, and have seen of 
your poems and letters, will not deviate from 
the chastity of praise, that is so uniformly unit- 
ed to true taste and genius. 

I am, Sir, &c. 



No. CLVn. 
TO LADY E. CUxVNINGHAM 

UT LADT, 

I woi;ld, as usual, have availed myself of the 
privilege your goodness has allowed me, of send- 
ing you any thing I compose in my poetical 
way ; but as I had resolved, so soon as the 
shock of my irreparable loss would allow me, to 
pay a tribute to my late benefactor, I determined 
to make that the first piece I should do myself 
the honour of sending you. Had the wing of 
my fancy been equal to the ardour of my heart, 
the enclosed had been much more worthy your 
perusal ; as it is, I beg leave to lay it at your 
ladyship's feet. As all the world knows my 
obligations to the late Earl of Glencairn, I would 
wish to show as openly that my heart gloyvs, 
and shall ever glow, with the most grateful 
sense and remembrance of his lordship's good- 
ness. The sables I did myself the honour to 
wear to his lordship's memory, were not the 
" mockery of woe." Nor shall my gratitude 
perish with me : — If, among my childien, I 
shall have a son that has a heart, he shall hand 
it down to his child as a family honour, and a 
family debt, that my dearest existence I owe to 
the noble house of Glencairn ! 

I was about to say, my lady, that if you think 
the poem may venture to see the light, 1 would, 
in some way or other, give it to the world. • 



• The poem enclosed, b The Lament Jor Jama, 
Satljqf OitHcaim, 



No, CLVIIL 
TO MR. AINSLIE. 

MT SEAR AINSLIE, 

Can you minister to a mind diseased ? Can 
you, amid the horrors of penitence, regret, re- 
morse, head-ache, nausea, und all the rest of the 
d — d hounds of hell, that beset a poor wretch, 
who has been guilty of the sin of drunkenness^ 
can you speak p;Mce to a troubled soul ? 

Miserable perdu that I am, I have tried every 
thing tliat u<ed to amuse me, but in vain : here 
must I sit a monument of the vengeance laid up 
in store for the wicked, slowly counting every 
chick of the clock as it slowly — slowly numbers 
over these lazy scoundrels of hours, who, d — a 
thera, are ranked up before me, every one at his 
neighbour's backside, and every one with a bur- 
then of anguish on his back, to pour on my de- 
voted head — and there is none to pity me. My 
wife scolds me ! my business torments me, and 
my sins come staring mc in the face, every one 
tcliing a more bitter tale than Ids fellow.^ 
When I tell you even .... has lost its 
power to please, you will guess something of 
my hell within, and all around me — I began 
Elihanks and EUhraes, but the stanza fell un- 
enjoyed, and unfinished from my listless tongue ; 
at last I luckily thought of reading over an old 
letter of yours, th.it lay by me in my book-case, 
and I felt something for the first time since I 
opened my eyes, of pleasurable existence. 
Well — I begin to breathe a little, since I began 
to write you. ilow are you, and what are you 
doing ? How goes law ? Apropos, for connec- 
tion's sake do not address to nie supervisor, for 
that is an honour I cannot pretend to — I am on 
the list, as we call it, for a supervisor, and will 
be called out by and bye to act one ; but at 
present, I am a simple gauger, tho' t'other day I 
got an appointment to an excise division of L.26 
per ann. better than the rest. My present in 
come, down money, is L. 70 per ann. 



1 have one or two good fellows here wlxoia 
you would be glad to know. 



No. CLIX. 

FROM SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD. 

SIR, Near Mai/bole, I6th Oct. 1791 

Accept of my thanks for your favour with 
the Lament on the death of my much esteemed 
friend, and your \vorthy patron, the perusal of 
which pleased and affected me much. The lines 
addressed to me are very flattering. 

I have always thought it most natural to sup- 
pose, (and a strong aigument in favour of a fu 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



361 



ture existence) that when x^'e see an honourable 
and virtuous man labouring under bodily infir- 
mities, and oppressed by the frowns of fortune 
in this world, that there was a happier state be- 
yond the grave ; where that worth and honour 
which were neglected here, would meet with 
their just reward, and where temporal misfor- 
tunes would receive an eternal recompense. Let 
us cherish this hope for our departed friend ; 
and moderate our grief for that loss we have 
sustained ; knowing that he cannot return to 
us, but we may go to him. 

Remember me to your wife, and with every 
good wish for the prosperity of you and your 
family, believe me at all times, 

Your most sincere friend, 

JOHN WHITEFOORD. 



No. CLX. 
FROM A. F. TYTLER, Esq. 

Edinburgh, 27th Nov. 1791. 

You have much reason to blame me for ne^ 
glecting till now to acknowledge the receipt of 
a most agreeable packet, containing The Whis- 
tle, a ballad ; and The Lament ; which reached 
me about six weeks ago in London, from whence 
I am just returned. Your letter was forwarded 
to me there from Edinburgh, where, as I ob- 
served by the date, it had lain for some days. 
This was an additional reason for me to have 
answered it immediately on receiving it ; but 
the truth was, the bustle of business, engage 
ments and confusion of one kind or another, in 
which I found myself immersed all the time I 
was in London, absolutely put it out of iny 
power. But to have done with apologies, let 
me now endeavour to prove myself in some de- 
gree deserving of the very flattering compliment 
you pay me, by giving you at least a frank and 
candid, if it should not be a judicious criticism 
on the poems you sent me. 

The ballad of The Whistle is, in my opinion, 
truly excellent. The old tradition which you 
have taken up is the best adapted for a Baccha- 
nalian composition of any I have ever met with, 
and you have done it full justice. In the first 
place, the strokes of wit arise naturally from 
the subject, and are uncommonly happy. For 
example, — 

'« The bands grew the tighter the more they 
were wet." 

" Cynthia hinted she'd find them next morn." 

" Though Fate said a hero should perish in light, 
So up rose bright Phoebus and down fell the 
knight." 

In the next place, you are singularly happy in 



he discrimination of your heroes, and in giving 
each the sentiments and language suitable to his 
character. And, lastly, you have much merit 
in the delicacy of the panegyric which you have 
contrived to throw on each of the dramatis per- 
sonce, perfectly appropriate to his character. 
The compliment to Sir Robert, the blunt sol- 
dier, is peculiarly fine. In short, this composi- 
tion, in my opinion, does you great honour, and 
I see not a line or a word in it which 1 could 
wish to be altered. 

As to The Lament, I suspect, from some ex- 
pressions in your letter to nie, that you are more 
doubtful with respect to the merits of this piece 
than of the ether, and I own I think you have 
reason ; for although it contains some beautiful 
stanzas, as the first, " The wind blew hollow," 
&c. the fifth, " Ye scatter'd birds ;" the thir- 
teenth, " Awake thy last sad voice," &c. Yet 
it appears to me faulty as a v.hole, and inferior 
to several of those you have already published 
in the same strain. ]My principal objection lies 
against the plan of the piece. I think it was 
unnecessary and improper to put the lamenta- 
tion in the mouth of a fictitious character, an 
aged bard. — It had been much better to have 
lamented your patron in your own person, to 
have expressed your genuine fetlings for his loss, 
and to have spoken the language of nature rather 
than that of fiction on the subject. Compare 
this with your poem of the same title in your 
printed volume, which begins, O thou pale 
Orb ! and observe what it is that forms the 
charm of that composition. It is, that it speaks 
the language of truth and of nature. The change 
is, in my opinion, injudicious too in this respect, 
that an aged bard has much less need of a pa- 
tron and protector than a young one. I have 
thus given you, with much freedom, my opinion 
of both the pieces. I should have made a very 
ill return to the compliment you paid me, if I 
had given you any other than my genuine sen- 
timents. 

It will give me great pleasure to hear from 
you when you find leisure, and I beg you will 
believe me ever, dear Sir, yours, &c. 



No. CLXI. 

TO mSS DA VIES. 

It is impossible, Madam, that the generous 
warmth and angelic purity of your youthful 
mind, can have any idea of that moral disease 
under which I unhappily must rank as the chief 
of sinners ; I mean a torpitude of the mora) 
powers that may be called, a lethargy of con- 
science In vain remorse rears her horrent 

crest, and rouses all her snakes ; beneath the 
deadly fixed eye and leaden hand of indolence, 
their wildest ire is charmed into the torpor of the 
bat, slumbering out the rigours of winter in th« 



362 



BURNS* WORKS. 



chink of a ruined wall. Notliing less, Jladam, 
could have inadi, me so long neglect your oblig- 
ing commands. Indeed I had one apolojjy — the 
bagatelle was not worth presenting. Besides, 
BO strongly am I i'ltere^tcd in Miss D— — 's fate 
and welfare in the serious business of life, amid 
its chances and changes ; that to nuke her the 
subject of a silly ballad, is downright mockery of 
these ardent feelings ; 'tis like an impertinent 
jest to a dying friend. 

Gracious Heaven ! why this disparity be- 
tween our wishes and our powers ? Why is the 
most generous wish to make others blest, impo- 
tent and ineffectual — as the idle breeze that 
crosses the pathless desert ? In my walks of life 
I have met «-ith a few people to wiioin how 
gladly would I have said — '• Go, be happy ! I 
know that your hearts have been wuiinded by 
the scorn of tbe proud, whom accident has plac- 
ed above you — or worse still, in whoso hand are, 
perhaps, placed many of the comforts of your 
life. But there ! ascend tiiat roek, Indepen- 
dence, and look justly down on their littleness 
of soul. Make the worthless tremble under your 
indignation, and the foolish sink before your con- 
tempt ; and largely impart that hajtpiness to 
others, which, 1 am certain, wiil give yourselves 
so much pleasure to bestow !" 

Why, dear Madam, must I wake from this de- 
lightful reverie, and find it all a dream ? Why, 
amid my generous enthusiasm, must I find my- 
self poor and powerless, incapable of wiping one 
tear from the eye of pity, or of adding one com- 
fort to the friend I love ! — Out upon the world ! 
say I, that its affairs are administered so ill ? 
They talk of reform ; — good Heaven ! what a 
reform would I maice among the sons, and even 
the daughters of men ! — Down, immediately, 
should go fools from the high places where mis- 
begotten chance has peiked them up, and through 
life should they skulk, ever haunted by their na- 
tive insignificance, as the body marches accom- 
panied by its shadow. — As for a much more for- 
midable class, the knaves, I am at a loss what to 
do with them : Had I a world, there should not 
be a knave in it. 



But the hand that could give, I would liberally 
fill ; and I would pour delight on the heart that 
could kindly forgive, aud generously love. 

Still the inequalities of his life are, among 
men, comparatively tolerable — but there is a de- 
licacy, a tenderness, accompanying every view 
in which we can place lovely AVoman, that are 
grated and shocked at the rude, capricious dis- 
tinctions of fortune. Woman is the blood-royal 
of life : let there be slight degrees of precedency 
among them — but let them bo all sacred. 
Whether this last sentiment be right or wrong, 
I am not accountable ; it is an original compo- 
sent feature of my mind. 



No. CLXIL 
TO MRS. DUNLOP 

ElUsIand, Mth December, 1791. 

Many thanks to you. Madam, for your good 
news respecting the little floweret and the mo- 
ther plant. I hope my poetic prayers have 
been heard, and v.ill be answered up to tfaa 
warmest sincerity of their fullest extent ; and 
then Jlrs. Henri will find her little darling the 
representative of his late parent, in every thing 
but his abridged existence. 

I have just finished the following song, which, 
to a lady the descendant of Wallace, and manjr 
heroes of his truly illustrious line, and herself 
rhe mother of several soldiers, needs neither pre- 
face nor apology. 

(Death Sony. Seep. 230) 



The circumstance that gave rise to the fore- 
going verses was, looking over, with a musical 
friend, M'Donald's collection of Highland airs ; 
I was struck with one, an Isle of Skye tune, 
entitled Oran an Auig, or. The Song of Death, 
to the measure of which I have adapted my 
st.uizas. I have of late composed two or three 
oiher little pieces, which ere )on full orbed 
moon, whose broad imjnulent face now stares at 
old mother earth all night, shall have slirunk 
into a modest crescent, just peeping forth at 
dewy da\vn, 1 shall find an hour to traascribo 
for you. A Dieuje vous commende ! 



' . ■*.».» w « tmt M **t M 



LETTERS, 1792. 

No. CLXIII. 

TO FRANCIS GROSE, Esq. F.A.S. 

sipw, 1792. 

I BELIEVE among all our Scots literati you 
have not met with Professor Dugald Stewart, 
who fills the moral philosophy chair in the Uni- 
versity of Edinburgh. To say that he is a maa 
of the first parts, and what is more, a man of 
the first worth, to a gentleman of your general 
acquaintance, and who so much enjoys the lux- 
ury of unencumbered freedom and undisturbed 
privacy, is nut jierhaps recommendation enough : 
— but when 1 inform you that Mr. Stewart'i 
principal characteristic is your favourite fea- 
ti:re ; that sterling independence of mind, which, 
though every man's right, so few men have the 
courage to claim, and fewer still the magnani- 
mity to support : — When I tell you, that unse- 
duced by splendour, and undisgusted by wretch- 
edness, he appreciates the merits of the various 
actors in thu great drama of life; merely as they 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



363 



perform their parts— in short, be is a man after 
your own heart, and I comply with his earnest 
request in letting jou know that he wislies 
above all things to meet with you. His house, 
Catrine, is within less than a mile of Sorn Cas- 
tle, which you proposed visiting ; or if you 
could transmit him the enclosed, he would with 
the greatest pleasure, meet you any where in the 
neighbourhood. I write to Ayrshire to inform 
Mr. Stewart that I have acquitted myself of my 
promise. Should your time and spirits permit 
your meeting with Mr. Stewart, 'tis well ; if 
not, I hope you will forgive this liberty, and I 
have at least an opportunity of assuring you 
with what truth and respect, 
I am. Sir, 

Your great admirer. 

And very humble servant. 



No. CLXIV. 
TO THE SAME. 

Among the jnany witch stories I have heard 
relating to Alloway kirk, I distinctly remember 
only two or three. 

Upon a stormy night, amid whistling squalls 
of wind, and bitter blasts of hail ; in short, on 
such a night as the devil would choose to take 
tiie air in ; a farmer or farmer's servant was 
plodding and ]»liishing homeward with his plough 
irons on his shoulder, having been getting some 
repairs on them at a neighbouring smithy. His 
v/ay lay by the kirk of Alloway, and being ra- 
ther on the anxious look out in approaching a 
place so well known to be a favourite haunt of 
the devil and the devil's friends and emissaries, 
he was struck aghast by discovering through 
the horrors of the storm and stormy night, a 
light, which, on his nearer approach, plainly 
snowed itself to proceed from the haunted edi- 
fice. Whether he had been fortified from above 
on his devout supplication, as is customary with 
people when they suspect the immediate pre- 
sence of Satan ; or whether, according to ano- 
ther custom, he had got courageously drunk at 
tie smithy, I will not pretend to determine ; 
but so it was that he ventured to go up to, nay 
into the very kirk. As good luck would have 
it his temerity came off unpunished. 

The members of the infernal junto were all 
out on some midnight business or other, and he 
saw nothing but a kind of kettle or caldron, de- 
pending from the roof, over the fire, simmering 
fomc heads of unchristened children, limbs of 
executed malefactors, &c. for the business of the 
night. — It was, in for a penny, in for a pound, 
with the honest ploughman : so without cere- 
mony he unhooked the caldron from oflF the fire, 
and pouring out the damnable ingredients, in- 
verted it on his head, and carried it fairly home, 
where it remained long in the family, a living 
evidence of the truth of the story. i 



Another story which I can prove to be equal> 

ly authentic, was as follows :— 

Oa a market day in the town of Ayr, a farm- 
er fiom Carrick, and consequently whose way 
lay by the very gate of Alloway kirk-yard, ia 
order to cross the river Doon at the old bridge, 
which is about two or three hundred yards fur- 
ther on than the said gate, had been detained 
by his business, till by the tinA; he reached Al- 
lon'ay it was the wizard hour, between night 
and morning. 

Though he was terrified, with a blaze stream- 
ing from the kirk, yet as it is a well-known fact 
that to turn back on these occasions is running 
by far the greatest risk of mischief, he prudent- 
ly advanced on his road. When he had reached 
the gate of the kirk-yard, he was surprised and 
entertained, through the ribs and arches of aa 
old gothic window, which still faces the high- 
way, to see a dance of witches merrily footing it 
round their old sooty blackguard master, who 
was keeping them all alive with the power of 
his bagpijie. The farmer stopping his horse to 
observe them a little, could plainly descry the 
faces of many old women of his acquaintance 
and neighbourhood. How the gentleman waa 
dressed, tradition does not say ; but the ladiea 
were all in their smocks : and one of them hap- 
pening unluckily to have a smock which wm 
considerably too short to answer all the purpow 
of that piece of dress our farmer was so tickled, 
that he involuntarily burst out, with a loud 
laugh, '• Weel luppen, Maggy w'i' the short 
sark!" aiid i-ecollcc:iiig himsilf, instantly spur- 
red his horse to l!ie top of his speed. I need 
not mention the univcrs;illy known fact, that no 
diabolical power can piirsue you beyond the 
middle of a running stream. Lucky it waa for 
the poor fanner that the river Doon was so near, 
for notwithstandicg the speed of his horse, which 
was a good one, against he reached the middle 
of tlic arch of the bridge, and consequently the 
middle of the stream, the pursuing, vengeful hagi, 
were so ckxe at his heels, that one of them actual- 
ly sprung to seize him ; hut it was too late, no- 
thing was on her siu'e of the stream but the 
horse's tail, which immediately gave way at her 
infernal grij), as if blasted by a stroke of light- 
ning ; but the fanner was beyond her reach. 
However, tiiC unsightly, tail-less condition of 
the vigorous steed was to the last hour of the 
noble creature's life, an awful warning to the 
Carrick farmers, not to stay too late in AjT 
markets. 

The last relation I shall give, though equally 
true, is not so well identified as the two former, 
with regard to the scene : but as the best autho- 
rities give it for Alloway. I shall relate it. 

Oa r. suiiimer's evening, about the time that 
nature puts on her sables to mourn the expiry 
of the chearful day, a shepherd buy belonging 
to a farmer in the immediate neighbourhood of 
Alloway kirk, had just folded his charge, and 
was returning home. As he passed the kirk, 
in the adjoinicg field, he fell in with a crew of 



364 



BURNS* WORKS. 



meo and women, who were busy pulling stems 
of the plant ragwort. He observed that as 
each person pulled a ragwort, he or she got 
astride of it, and called out, " up horsie !" on 
which the ragwort flew off, like Pegasus, 
through the air with its rider. The foolish boy 
likewise pulled his ragwort, and cried with the 
rest, "up horsie!" and, strange to tell, away 
he flew with the company. The first stage at 
which the cavalcade stopt, was a merchant's 
wine cellar in Bourdeaux, where, without say- 
ing by your leave, they quaffed away at the best 
the cellar could afford, until the morning, foe to 
the imps and works of darkness, threatened to 
throw light on the matter, and frightened them 
from their carousals. 

The poor shepherd lad, being equally a 
stranger to the scene and the liquor, heedlessly 
got himself drunk ; and when the rest took 
horse, he fell asleep, and was found so next day 
by some of the people belonging to the merchant. 
Somebody that understood Scotch, asking him 
what he was, he said he was such-a-onc's herd 
in Alloway, and by some means or other getting 
home again, he lived long to tell the world the 
wondrous tale. 

I am, &c. &c.* 



No. CLXV.' 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

5tk January, 1792. 

You see my hurried life, Madam : I can only 
command starts of time ; however, I am glad 
of one thing ; since I finished the other sheet, 
the political blast that threatened my welfare 
18 overblown. I have corresponded with Com- 
missioner Graham, for the Board had made 
me the subject of their animadversions ; and 
now I have the pleasure of informing you, that 
all is set to rights in that quarter. Now, as to 
these informers, may the devil be let loose to 
. but hold ! I was praying most fervently 

in my last sheet, and I must not so soon fall a 
swearing in this. 

Alas ! how little do the wantonly or idly of- 
ficious think what mischief they do by their 
malicious insinuations, indirect impertinence, 
or thoughtless blabbings. What a difference 



" This letter was copied from the Centura Literaria, 
1786. It was communicated to the editor of that work 
by Mr. Gilchrist of Stamford, with the following re- 
mark. . . , 

" In a collection of miscellaneous papers of the An- 
tiquary Grose, which I purchased a few years since, 
I round the following letter written to him by Burns, 
when the former was collecting the Antiquities of Scot. 
land : When I premise it was on the second tradition 
that he afterwards formed the inimitable tale of " Tarn 
O'Shanter," I cannot doubt of its being read with great 
interest. It were " burning day-light" to point out to 
a reader, (and who is not a reader of Burns?) the 
thoughts he afterwards transplanted into the rhythmi- 
cal nanative." 

O, C, 



there is in intrinsic worth, candour, benevo-i 
lence, generosity, kindness — in all the charitie* 
and all the virtues, between one class of human 
beings and another. For instance, the amiable 
circle I so lately mixed with in the hospitable 

hall of D , their generous hearts — their un- 

contaminated dignified minds — their informed 
and polished understandings — what a contrast, 
when compared — if such comparing were not 
downright sacrilege — with the soul of the mis- 
creant who can deliberately plot the destruc- 
tion of an honest man that never offended him, 
and with a grin of satisfaction see the unfortu- 
nate being, his faithful wife, and prattling inno- 
cents, turned over to beggary and ruin ! 

Your cup, my dear Madam, arrived safe. I 
had two worthy fellows dining with me the 
other day, when I, with great formality, pro- 
duced my whigmeleerie cup, and told them that 
it had been a family-piece among the descend- 
ants of Sir William Wallace. This roused such 
an enthusiasm, that they insisted on bumpering 
the punch round in it ; and by and bye, never 
did your great ancestor lay a Southron more 
completely to rest than for a time did your 
cup my two friends. Apropos, this is the sea- 
son of wishing. May God bless you, my dear 
friend, and bless me the humblest and sincerest 
of your friends, by granting you yet many re- 
turns of the season ! May all good things at- 
tend you and yours wherever they are scattered 
over the earth ! 



No. CLXVL 

TO MR. WILLIAM SMELLIE, 
PRINTER. 

Dumfries, 22 J January, 1792. 
I SIT down, my dear Sir, to introduce a young 
lady to you, and a lady in the first ranks of 
fashion too. What a task ! to you — who care 
no more for the herd of animals called young 
ladies, than you do for the herd of auimals 
called young gentlemen. To you — who despise 
and detest the groupings and combinations of 
fashion, as an idiot painter that seems indus- 
trious to place staring fools and unprincipled 
knaves in the foreground of his picture, while 
men of sense and honesty are too often thrown 
in the dimmest shades. Mrs. Riddel, who 
will take this letter to town with her and send 
it to you, is a character that, even in your own 
way, as a naturalist and a philosopher, would 
be an acquisition to your acquaintance. The 
lady too is a votary of the muses ; and as I 
think myself somewhat of a judge in my own 
trade, I assure you that her verses, always cor- 
rect, and often elegant, arc much beyond the 
common run of the laJy-poetesses of the day. 
She is a great admirer of your book, and hear- 
ing me Bay that I was acquaiated with you, sha 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



Ui 



b^ged to be known to you, as she is just going 
to pay her first visit to our Caledonian capital. 
I told her that her best way was to desire her 
near relation, and your intimate friend, Craig- 
darroch, to have you at his house while she was 
there ; and lost you might think of a lively West 
Indian girl of eighteen, as girls of eighteen too 
often deserve to be thought of, I should take 
care to remove that prejudice. To be impar- 
tial, however, in appreciating the lady's merits, 
she has one unlucky failing, a failing which 
you will easily discover, as she seems rather 
pleased with indulging in it ; and a failing that 
you will as easily pardon, as it is a sin which 
very much besets yourself; — where she dislikes 
or despises, she is apt to make no more a se- 
cret of it, than where she esteems and respects. 
I will not present you with the unmeaning 
compliments of the season, but I will send you 
my warmest wishes and most ardent prayers, 
that FORTUNE may never throw your snusisT- 
INCE to the mercy of a knave, or set your 
CHARACTER On the judgment of a fool, but 
that, upright and erect, you may walk to an 
honest grave, where men of letters shall say, 
here lies a man who did honour to science ; and 
men of worth shall say, here lies a man who did 
honour to human nature ! 



» No. CLXVII. 

TO MR. W. NICOLL. 

20th February, 1792. 

O THOU, wisest among the wise, meridian 
blaze of prudence, full moon of discretion, and 
chief of many counsellors ! How infinitely is 
thy puddle-headed, rattle-headed, wrong-head- 
ed, round-headed slave indebted to thy super- 
eminent goodness, that from the luminous path 
of thy own right-lined rect)tu<ie, thou lookest 
benignly down on an erring wretch, of whom 
the zig-zag wanderings defy all the powers of 
calculation, from the simple copulation of units, 
up to the hidden mysteries oi liuxions ! Miy 
one feeble ray of that light of wisdom which 
darts from thy sensorium, straight as the arrow 
of heaven, and bright as the meteor of inspira- 
tion, may it be my portion, so that I may be 
less unworthy of the face ami favour o{ that fa- 
ther of proverbs and master of maxims, that 
antipode of folly, and magnet among the sages, 
the wise and witty WiUie NicoU ! Amen ! Amen ! 
Yea, so be it ! 

For me ! I am a beast, a reptile, and know 
nothing • From the rave of my ignorance, 
amid the fogs of my dulness, and pestilential 
fumes of my political heresies, I look up to 
thee, as doth a tcad through the iron-barred 
lucerne of a pestiferous dungeon, to the cloud- 
less glory of a summer sun ! Sorely sighing 
in bitterness of 80ul| I say, when shall my name 



be the quotation of the wise, and my counte- 
nance be the delight of the godly, like th^ illus- 
trious lord of Laggan's many hills ? * As for 
him, his works are perfect ; never did the pea 
of calumny blur the fair page of his reputation, 
nor the bolt of hatred fly at his dweUing. 



Thou mirror of purity, whan shall the elflne 
lamp of my glimmerous understanding, purged 
from sensual appetites and gross desires, shine 
like the constellation of thy intellectual powers. 
— As for thee, thy thoughts are pure, and thy 
lips are holy. Never did the unhallowed breath 
of the powers of darkness, and the pleasures of 
darkness, pollute the sacred flame of thy sky- 
descended and heaven-bound desires ; never did 
the vapours of impurity stain the unclouded 
serene of tliy cerulean imagination. O that 
like thine were the tenor of my life, like thine 
the tenor of my conversation ! then should no 
friend fear for my strength, no enemy rejoice in 
my weakness ! Then should I lie down and 
rise up, and none to make me afraid. — May thy 
pity and thy prayer be exercised for, O thou 
lamp of wisdom and mirror of morality ! thy 
devoted slave.f 



No. CLXVIII. 
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

ad March, 1792. 

SixcE I wrote to you the last lugubrious 
sheet, I have uot had time to write you farther. 
When I say that I had not time, that, as usual, 
means, that the three demons. Indolence, busi- 
ness, and ennui, have so completely shared my 
hours among them, as uot to leave me a five 
minutes fragment to take up a pen in. 

Thank heaven, I feel my spirits buoying up- 
wards with the renovating year. Now I shall 
in good earnest take up Thomson's songs. I 
dare say he thinks I have used him unkindly, 
and I must own with too much appearance of 
truth. Apropos, do you know the much admir- 
ed old Highland air called 7'/ie Sutor's Doch- 
ter ? It is a first-rate favourite of mine, and I 
have written what I reck<m one of my bestsnnga 
to it. I will send it to j'ou as it was sung with 
jrroat applause in some fashionable circles by 
Major Robertson, of Lude, who was here with 
his corps. 



There is one commission that I must trouble 
you with. I lately lost a valuable seal, a pre- 



• Mr. Nicoll. 

\ This strain of irony was excited by a letter of Mr 
Nicoll'3 containing good advice, 



886 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Bent from a departed friend, wliich vexes me 
touch. I have gotten one of your Highland 
pebbles, which I fancy would make a very de- 
cent one ; and I want to cut my arraoriafb tar- 
ing on It ; will you be so obliging as inquire 
What will be the expense of such a business ? I 
do not know that my name is matriculated, as 
the heralds call it, at all ; but I have invented 
arms for myself, so you know I shall be chief of 
the name; and by courtesy of Scotland, will 
likewise be entitled to supporters. These, how- 
ever, I do not intend having on my seal. I am 
a bit of a herald ; and shall give you, iecundum 
artem, my arms. On a field, azure, a holly 
bush, seeded, proper, in base; a shepherd's pipe 
and crook, saltierwise, also proper, in chief. On 
a wreath of the colours, a wood-lark perchin" 
on a sprig of bay-tree, proper : for crest, two 
mottoes, round the top of the crest, Wood-notes 
wild. At the bottom of the shield, in the u<iual 
place, Better a wee bush than nae Held. By 
the shepherd's pipe and crook I do not mean the 
nonsense of painters of Arcadia ; but a Stock 
and Horn, and a Club, such as you see at the 
head of Allan Ramsay, in Allan's quarto edition 
of the Gentle Shepherd. By the bve, do you 
know Allan ? He must be a man of 'verv great 
genius,— Why is he not more known ?— Has he 
no patrons ? or do « Poverty's cold wind and 
crushing rain beat keen and heavy" on him ? 
I once, and but once, got a glance of that noble! 
edition of the noblest pastoral in the world, and ' 
dear as it was, I mean dear as to my po'^ket I 
would have bought it ; but I was told that' it 
was printed and engraved for subscribers only. 
He IS the only artist who has hit gennme pas- 
toral costume. What, my dear Cunningham, 
i» there in riches, that they narrow and harden 
the heart so? I think that were I as rich as the 
sun, I should be as generous as the day ; but 
as I have no reason to imagine my soul a nobler 
one than any other man's, I must conclude that 
wealth imparts a bird-lime quality to the pos- 
•essor, at which the man, in his native poverty, 
would have revolted. What has led me to thi's, 
» the idea of such merit as Mr. Allan possesses, 
and such riches as a nabob or governor-contrac- 
tor possesses, and why they do not form a mu- 
tual league. Let wealth shelter and cherish un- 
protected merit, and the gratitude and celebrity 
of that merit will richly repay it. 



try to give a little mugical iush-tictloa in al>i?k 
ly respectable family, where Mr, C. may'hm 
his own terms, and may be as happy as indo- 
lence, the Devil, and the gout wiU permit him. 
Mr, B. knows well how Mr. C. is engaged with 
another family ; but cannot Mr. C. find two or 
three weeks to spare to each of them ? 2^Ir B 
is deeply impressed with, and awfully conscious 
of, the high importance of Mr. C's time, whe- 
ther m the winged moments of symphonious 
exhibition, at the keys of harmony, while list- 
ening Seraphs cease their own less delightful 
strains ;— or in the drowsy hours of slumberous 
repose, in the arms of his dearlv-beloved elbow- 
chair, where the frowsy, but 'potent power of 
indolence, circumfuses her vapours round, and 
sheds her dews on, the head of her darling son. 
—But half a line conveying half a meaning 
from Mr. C. would make Mr, B. the very hap- 
piest of mortals, ' '^ 



No. CLXX. 

TO xMRS. DUNLOP. 

Annan Water Foot, 22d Auguit, 1792 
Do not blame >ne for it. Madam—my owa 
conscKnce, hackneyed and weather-beaten as it 
IS, in watching and reproving my vagaries, fol- 
lies, indolence. &c. has continued to blame and 
punish me sufficiently. 



No. CLXIX. 
TO MR. T. CLARKE, Edinburgh. 

^ ^ J»b 16, 1792. 

Mr. Burns begs leave to present his most 

respectful compliments to Mr. Clarke Mr. B. 

some time ago did himself the honour of writ- 
ing Mr. C. resuecting coming out to the coun- 



Do you think it possible, niy dear and hon- 
oured friend, that I could be so lost to graritude 
for many favours ; to esteem for much worth, 
and to the honest, kind, pleasurable tie of, now, 
old acquaintance, and I hope and am sure of pro- 
gressive increasing friendship—as, for a single 
day, not to think of you— to ask the Fates what 
they are doing and about to do with my much 
loved friend and her wide-scattered connexions, 
and to beg of them to be as kind to you and 
yours as they possibly can. 

Apropos (though how it is apropos, I have 
not leisure to explain), do you know that I am 
almost in love with an acquaintance of yours? 
—Almost ! said I— I am in love, souse'.' over 
head and ears, deep as the most unfathomable 
abyss of the boundless ocean ; but the word. 
Love, owing to the intcrmingleJoms ai the good 
and the bad, the pure and the impure, in this 
worid, being rather an equivocal term for ex- 
pressing one's sentiments and sensations, I must 
do justice to the sacred purity of my attachment. 
Know then, that the heart-struck awe ; he dis- 
tant liumble approach ; the delight we should 
have in gazing upoii and listening to a Messen- 
ger of Heaven, appearing in all the unspotted 
purity of his celestial home, among the coarse, 
polluted, far inferior sons of men, to deliver to 
them tidings that make their hearts swim in jor 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



867 



Ind tlieir imaginations soar in tran$port-~such, 
•o delighting, and so pure, were the emotions of 
my soul on meeting the other day with Miss 

1. — B — , your neighbour at M ]\Ir. B. 

with his two daughters, accompanied by Mr. H. 
of G. passing through Dumfries a few days ago, 
on their way to England, did me the honour of 
calling on me ; on which I took my horse 
(though God knows I could ill spare the time), 
and accompanied them fourteen or fifteen miles, 
and dined and spent the day with them. 'Twas 
about nine, I think, when I left them ; and rid- 
ing home, I composed the following ballad, of 
which you will probably think you have a dear 
bargain, as it will coast you another groat of 
poBtage. You must know that there is an old 
ballad beginning with 

" My bonnie Lizzie Baillie 

I'll row thee in my plaidie," &c. 

So I parodied it as follows, which is literally the 
first copy, " unanointed unannealed," as Ham- 
let says. — Sec p. IQ-t. 

So much for ballads. I regret that you are 
Jpne to the east country, as I am to be in Ayr- 
•hire in about a fortnight. This world of ours, 
notwithstanding it has many good things in it, 
yet it has ever had this curse, that two or three 
people who would be the happier the oftoner they 
met together, are, almost without exctption, al- 
ways 80 placed as never to meet but cm i; di' 
twice a-year, which, considering the few yt'ars 
of a man's life, is a very great " evil under the 
sun," which I do not recollect that Solomnn Ins 
mentioned in his catalogue of the miseries of man. 
I hope and believe that there is a state of exist- 
ence beyond the grave, where the worthy of this 
life will renew their former intimacies, with this 
tndearing addition, that " we meet to part no 
more." 



" Tell us, ye dead, 
Will none of you in pity disclose the secret 
What 'tis you are, and we must shortly be !" 

A thousand times have I made this apostrophe 
to the departed sons of men, but not one of them 
has ever thought fit to answer the question. 
" that some courteous ghost would blab it 
out !" — but it cannot be ; you and I, my fiieud, 
must make the experiment by ourselves and for 
ourselves. However, I am so convinced that an 
unshaken faith in the doctrines of religion is not 
only necessary, by making us better men, iuit ul- 
•o by making us happier men, that I sh.iU take 
•very care that your little god-son, and every 
little creature that shall call me father, shall be 
taught them. 

So ends this heterogeneous letter, written at 
this wild place of the world, in the intervals of 
my labour of discharging a vessel of rum from 
Antigua. 



No. CLXVn 
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Dumfries, lOth September, 1792. 

No ! I will not attempt an apology. — Amid 
all ray hurry of business, grinding the face of 
the publican and the sinner en the merciless 
wheels of the excise ; making ballad?, and then 
drinkin?;', and singing them ; and, over and 
above all, the correcting the press-work of two 
dirterent publications; still, still I might have 
stolen five minutes to dedicate to one of the first 
of my friends and fellow-creatures. I might 
have done, as I do at j)resent, snatched an hour 
near " witching time of night" — and scrawled 
a page or two. I might have congratulated my 
friend on his marriage ; or I might have thank- 
ed the Caledonian archers for the honour they 
have done me (though to do myself justice, I 
intended to have done both in rhymr-, else I had 
done both long ere now. ) Wei), then, here i* 
to your good health ! for you must know, I 
have set a nipperkiii of toddy by me, just by 
way of spell, to keep away the meikle horneil 
Deil, or any of his subaltern imps who may be 
on their nightly rounds. 

But what shall I write to you? — " The voice 
said cry," and I said, " what shall I cry ?" — O, 
thou spirit ! whatever thou art, or wherever 
thou makest thyself visible ! be thou a bogle by 
the eerie side of an auld thorn, iu the dreary 
glen through which the herd callan maun bicker 
in his gloamin route frae the faulde ! Be thou a 
brownie, set, at dead of night, to thy task by 
the blazing ingle, or in the solitary barn where 
the repercussions of thy iron flail affright thy- 
self, as thou performest the work of twenty of 
the sons of men, cie the cock-crowing summon 

thee lo thy ample cog of substantial brose Be 

tliou a kelpie, haunting the ford or ferry, in the 
starless night, mixing thy laughing yell with the 
howling of the storm, and the roaring of the 
flood, as thou viewest the perils and miseries of 
man on the foundeiing horse, or in the tunil>» 
litig boat ! — Or, lastly, be thou a ghost, paying 
thy nocturnal visits to the hoary ruins of decay- 
ed grandeur ; or performing thy mystic rites in 
the shadow of thy time-worn church, while the 
moon looks, without a cloud, on the silent, 
ghastly dwellings of the dead around thee ; or 
taking thy stand by the bedside of the villain, 
or the murderer, pourtraying on his dreaming 
fancy, pictures, drcaiful ;is the horrors of un- 
veiled hell, and terrible as the wrath of incensed 
Deity ! — Cume, thou spirit, but not in these 
honid foru:s ; come with the milder, gentle, 
easy inspirations which tliou breathest round 
the wi,' of a prating advocate, or the tete of a 
tea-sij)ping gossip, while their tongues run at 
the light-horse gallop of cli^hlnacldver for ever 
and evei- — come anil assist a poor devil who is 
quite jaded in the attempt to share half an idea 
among half a hundred words ; to fill up four 
quarto pages, while he has not got one single 



S68 



BURNS' WORKS. 



eentence of recollection, information, or remark 
worth putting pen to paper for. 

I feel, I feel the presence of supernatural as- 
sistance ! circled in the embrace of my elbow- 
chair, my breast labours, like the bloated Sybil 
on her three-footed stool, and like her too, la- 
bours with Nonsense Nonsense, auspicious 

name ! Tutor, friend, and finger-post in the 
mystic mazes of law ; the cadaverous paths of 
physic ; and particularly in the sightless soar- 
ings of SCHOOL DIVINITY, who, leaving Com- 
mon Sense confounded at his strength of pinion. 
Reason delirious with eyeing his giddy flight, 
and Truth creeping back into the bottom of her 
well, cursing the hour that ever she oifered her 
scorned alliance to the wizard power of Theolo- 
gic Vision — raves abroad on all the winds. " On 
earth Discord ! a gloomy Heaven above, open- 
ing her jealous gates to the nineteen thousandth 
part of the tithe of mankind ! and below, an in- 
escapable and inexorable hell, expanding its le- 
viathan jaws for the vast residue of mortals ! ! !" 
— O doctrine ! comfortable and healing to the 
weary, wounded soul of a man ! Ye sons and 
daughters of affliction, ye pauvres miserables, to 
whom day brings no pleasure, and night yields 
no rest, be comforted ! " 'Tis but one to nine, 
teen hundred thousand that your situation will 
mend in this world ;" so, alas I the experience 
of the poor and the needy too often affirms ; and 
'tis nineteen hundred thousand to one, by the 

dogmas of , that you will be damned 

eternally in the world to come ! 

But of all Nonsense, Religious Nonsense is 
the most nonsensical ; so enough, and more 
than enough of it. Only, by the bye, will you, 
or can you tell me, my dear Cunningham, why 
a sectarian turn of mind has always a tendency 
to narrow and illiberalize the heart ? They are 
orderly; they may be just; nay, I have known 
them merciful : but still your children of sanc- 
tity move among their fellow-creatures with a 
nostril snuffing putrescence, and a foot spurning 
filth, in short, with a conceited dignity that 

your titled 

. . . or any other of your Scottish lordlings 
of seven centuries standing, display when they 
accidentally mix among the raany-aproned sons 
of mechanical life. 1 remember, in my plough- 
boy days, I could not conceive it possible that a 
noble lord could be a fool, or a godly man could 

be a knave How ignorant are plough-boys ! — 

Nay, I have since discovered that a t/odtt/ wo- 
man may be a I — But hold — Here's t'ye 

again — this rum is generous Antigua, so a very 
unfit niensti'uuin fur soandal. 

Apropos, how do you like, I mean really like 
the mairied lite ! Ah, my ti lend ! matrimony is 
quite a different tiling fiom what your love-sick 
youths and sighing girls take it to be ! But 
marriage, we are told, is appointed by God, and 
I shall never quarrel witii any of liis institutions. 
I am a husband of i/Lier standing than yuu, and 
shall give you my iiieas of the conjugal Btate— 
(e» passaiUt jou know I am no Latiuist, is aot 



conjugal der'ivei from Jugum, a yoke?) Well, 
then, the scale of good-wifeship I divide into 

ten parts Good-nature, four ; Good Sense, 

two ; Wit, one ; Personal Charms, viz. a iweet 
face, eloquent eyes, fine limbs, graceful carriage, 
(I would add a fine waist too, but that is <a 
soon spoilt, you know), all these, one ; as for 
the other qualities belonging to, or attending on, 
a wife, such as Fortune, Connections, Educa- 
tion, (I mean education extraordinary), Family 
Blood, &c. divide the two remaining degrees 
among them as you please ; only, remember 
that all these minor properties must be express- 
ed by fractions, for there is not any one of 
them, in the aforesaid scale> entitled to the dig- 
nity of an integer. 

As for the rest of my fancies and reveries- 
how I lately met with Miss Lesly Baillie, the 
most beautiful, elegant woman in the world 
— how I accompanied her and her father's fa- 
mily fifteen miles on their journey, out of pure 
devotion, to admire the loveliness of the works 
of God, in such an unequalled display of them 
— how, in galloping home at night, I made a 
ballad on her, of which these two stanzas make 
a part— 

Thou, bonnie Lesly, art a qneen, 
Thy subjects we before thee ; 

Thou, bonnie Lesly, art divine, 
The hearts o' men adore thee. 

The very Deil he could na scaith 

Whatever wad belang thee ! 
He'd look into thy bonnie face 

And say, " I canna wrang thee." 

— ^behold all these things are written in the 
chronicles of my imagination, and shall be read 
by thee, my dear friend, and by thy beloved 
spouse, my other dear friend, at a mora conve- 
nient season. 

Now, to thee, and to thy before-designed ho- 
som-companion, be given the precious things 
brought forth by the sun, and the precious 
things brought forth by the moon, and the be- 
nignest influence of the stars, and the living 
streams which flow from the fountains of life, 
and by the tree of life, for ever and ever !— 
Amen ! 



No. CLXVHL 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Dumfries, 24-th September, 1792. 
I HAVE this moment, my dear Madam, yours 
of the twenty-third. All your other kind re- 
[noaches, your news, &c. are out of my head 
when I read and think on Mrs. H 's situa- 
tion. Good God ! a heart-wounded helpless 
young woman — in a »t:'aoge. foreign land, and 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



S69 



that laad convulsed with every horror, that can 
harrow the human feelings — sick — ^looking, 
longing for a comforter, but finding none — a 
mother's feelings, too — but it is too much : he 
who wounded (he only cau) may He heal !* 



I wish the fanner great joy of his new ac- 
quisition to his family 

I cannot say that I give him joy of his life as a 
firmer. 'Tis, as a farmer paying a dear, un- 
conscionable rent, a cursed life ! As to a laird 
farming his own property ; sowing his own 
corn in hope ; and reaping it, in spite of brittle 
weather, in gladness ; knowing that none can 
say unto him, " what dost thou ?" — fattening 
his herds ; shearing his flocks ; rejoicing at 
Christmas ; and begetting sons and daughters, 
until he be the venerated, grey-haired leader of 
a little tribe — 'tis a heavenly life ! but Devil 
take the life of reaping the fruits that another 
must eat. 

Well, your kind wishes will be gratified, as 
to seeing me when I make my Ayrshire visit. 
I cannot leave Mrs. B , until her nine 
months' race is run, which may perhaps be in 
three or four weeks. She, too, seems determin- 
ed to make me the patriarchal leader of a band. 
However, if Heaven will be so obliging as let 
me have them on the proportion of three boys 
to one girl, I shall be so much the more pleased. 
I hope, if I am spared with them, to show a set 
of boys that will do honour to my cares and 
name ; but I am not equal to the task of rear- 
ing girls. Besides, I am too poor ; a girl should 
always have a fortune. Apropos, your little 
god-son is thriving charmingly, but is a very 
devil. He, though two years younger, has com- 
pletely mastered his brother. Robert is indeed 
the mildest, gentlest creature I ever saw. He 
has a most surprising memory, and is quite the 
pride of his school n) aster. 

You know how readily we get into prattle up- 
on a subject dear to our heart : you can excuse 
t. God bless you and you^s ! 



No. CLXIX. 
TO THE SAME. 

SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN WRITTEN ON THE 
SSATU OP MRS. H , HER DAUGHTER. 

I HAD been from home, and did not receive 
your letter until my return the other day. 
What shall I say to comfort you, my much-va- 
lued, much-afflicted friend ! I can but grieve 
with you ; consolation I have none to offer, ex- 



• This much-lamented lady was gone to the south 
of France with her infant son, wheie the died soon af- 



cept that which religion holds out to the chil- 
dren of affliction — children of affliction I— 
how just the expression ! and like every other 
family, they have matters among them which 
they hear, see, and feel in a serious, all-impor- 
tant manner, of which the world has not, nor 
cares to have, any idea. The world looks in- 
differently on, makes the passing remark, and 
proceeds to the next novel occurrence. 

Alas, Madam ! who would wish ' for many 
years ! What is it hut to drag existence until 
our joys gradually expire and leave us in a night 
of misery ; like the gloom which blots out the 
stars one by one, from the face of night, and 
leaves us, without a ray of comfort, in the howl- 
ing waste ! 

I am interrupted, and must leave off. You 
shall soon hear from me again. 



No. CLXX. 

TO THE SAME. 

Dumfries, 6th December, 1792. 

I SHALL be in Ayrshire, I think, next week ; 
and if at all possible, I shall certainly, my much- 
esteemed friend, have the pleasure of vuiitiug at 
Dunlop-house. 

Alas, Madam ! how seldom do we me meet 
in this world, that we have reason to congratu- 
late ourselves on occasions of happiness ! I have 
not passed half the ordinary term of an old man's 
life, and yet I scarcely look over the obituary of 
a newspaper, that I do nut see some names that 
I have known, and which I, and other acquaint- 
ances, little thought to meet with there so soon. 
Every other instance of the mortality of our 
kind, makes us cast an anxious look into the 
dreadful abyss of uncertainty, and shudder with 
apprehensioris for our own fate. But of how 
different an importance are the lives of different 
individuals? Nay, of what importance is one 
period of the same life, more than another ? A 
few years ago, I could have lain down in the 
dust, " careless of the voice of the morning ;" 
and now not a few, and these most helpless in- 
dividuals, would, on losing mc and my exer- 
tions, lose both their " staff and shield." By 
the way, these helpless ones have lately got an 
addition, Mrs. B. having given me a fine girl 
since I wrote you. There is a charming pas- 
sage in Thomson's Edward and Eleanora. 

" The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer— 
Or what need he regard his single woes ?" &c. 

As I am got in the way of quotations, I shaD 
give you another from the same piece, peculiar.* 
ly, alas ! too peculiarly apposite, my dear Mft* 
dam, to your present frame of mind : 

" "Who so unworthy but may proudly deck hinv 
With his fair-weather virtue, that exulti 

67 



870 



BURNS* WORKS. 



Glad oW tke lummef main? the tempest 

comefl, 
The rougli winds rage aloud ; when from the 

helm 
This virtue shrinks, and in a corner lies, 
Lamenting — Heavens ! if privileged from trial, 
How cheap a thing were virtue !" 

I do not remember to liave heard you men- 
tion Thomson's dramas. I pick up favourite 
quotations, and store them in my mind as ready 
armour, offensive, or defensive, amid the struggle 
of this turbulent existence. Of these is one, a 
very favourite one, from his Alfred, 

" Attach thee firmly to the virtuous deeds 
And offices of life ; to life itself, 
With all its vain and transient joys, sit loose." 

Probably I have quoted some of these to you 
formerly, as indeed when I write from the heart, 
1 am apt to be guilty of such repetitions. The 
compass of the heart, in the musical style of ex- 
pression, is much more bounded than that of 
the imagination ; so the notes of the former are 
extremely apt to run into one another ; but in 
return for the paucity of its compass, its few 
notes are much more sweet. I must still give 
you another quotation, which I am almost sure 
I have given you before, but I caunot resist the 
temptation. The subject is religion — speaking 
pf its importance to mankind, the author says, 

•• 'Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morning 
bright," &c. as in p. 49. 

I see you are in for double postage, so I shall 
e'en scribble out t'other sheet. We in this 
country here have many alarms of the reform- 
ing, or rather the republican spirit of your part 
of the kingdom. Indeed we are a good deal in 
commotion ourselves. For me, I am a place- 
man, you know ; a very humble one indeed, 
Heaven knows, but still so much so as to gag 
me. What my private sentiments are, you wiH 
find out without an interpreter. 



I have taken up the subject in another view ; 
and the other day, for a pretty actress's benefit- 
night, I wrote an address, which I will give 
you on the other page, called The Rights of 
Woman. 



THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN. 

Jin Occasional Address spoken by Miss FoN- 
TEKELLK on her benefit night. 

While Europe's eye is fix'd on mighty things. 
The fate of empires and the fall of kings, 
While Quacks of state must each produce his 

plan, 
/Vnd even children lisp the Rights of Man ; 



Amid this mighty fuss just let me mentiofl, 
The Jiiphts of Woman merit some attentioii 

First, in the sexes' intermix'd connexion, 
One sacred Right of Woman is protection. 
The teuder flower that lifts its head, elate, 
Helpless, must fall before the blast of fate, 
Sunk to the earth, defaced its lovely form, 
Unless your shelter ward th' impending storm.— 

Our second Right's — but needless here is cau-- 
tion. 
To keep that right inviolate's the fashion. 
Each man of sense has it so full before him, 
He'd die before he'd wrong it — 'tis decorum, — 
There was, indeed, in far less polish'd days, 
A time, when rough rude men had naughty 

ways : 
Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a 

riot, 
Nay, even thus invade a lady's quiet. — 
Now, thank our stars ! these Gothic times are 

fled: 
Now, well-bred men — and you are all well- 
bred — 
Most justly think (and we are much the gsua- 

ers) 
Such conduct neither spirit, wit, nor manners. • 

For Right the thiid, our last, our best, our 
dearest. 
That right to fluttering female hearts the near- 
est. 
Which even the Rights of Kings in low pros- 
tration 
Most humbly own — 'tis dear, dear admiration / 
In that blest sphere alone we live and move ; 
There taste that life of life — immortal love — 
Smiles, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirtations, airs, 
' Gainst such an host what flinty savage dares — 
Wlien awful Beauty joins with all her charms. 
Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms ? 

But truce with kings, and truce with consti- 
tutions, 
With bloody armaments and revolutions ; 
Let majesty your first attention summon, 
Ah I ca ira ! the Majestv or Womam ! 

I shall have the honour of receiving your erf- 
ticisms in person at Dunlop. 



No. CLXXI. 

TO R. GRAHAM, Esq. Fintrt. 

SIR, December, 1792. 

I HAVE been surprised, confounded, and dis- 
tracted, by Mr. Mitchell, the collector, telling 
nie that he has received an order from your 



• Ironicsl allusion to the saturnalia of the CaledO' 
man Hunt, 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



871 



Uoard to inquire into my political conduct, and 
blaming me as a person disaffected to Govern- 
Inent. Sir, you are a husband — and a father. — 
You know what you would feel, to sec the much- 
loved wife of your bosom, and your helpless, 
prattling little ones, turned adrift into the world, 
degraded and disgraced from a situation in which 
they bad been respectable and respected, and left 
almost without the necessary support of a miser- 
able existence. Alas, Sir ! must I think that 
such, soon, will by my lot ! and from the d-mned, 
dark insinuations of hellish groundless envy too ! 
I believe. Sir, I may aver it, and ia the sight of 
Omniscience, that I would not tell a deliberate 
falsehood, no, not though even worse horrors, if 
worse can be, than those I have mentioned, hung 
over my head ; and I say, that the allegation, 
whatever villain has made it, is a lie ! To the 
British Constitution, on revolution principles, 
next after my God, I am most devoutly attach- 
ed ! You, Sir, have been much and generously 
my friend. — Heaven knows how warmly I have 
felt the obligation, and how gratefully I have 
thanked you. — Fortune, Sir, has made you pow- 
erful, and me impotent ; has given you patron- 
age, and me dependence. — I would not, for my 
single self, call on your humanity ; were such 
my insular, unconnected situation, I would de- 
spise the tear that now swells in my eye — I 
could brave misfortune, I could face ruin ; for 
at the worst, " Death's thousand doors stand 
open ;" but, good God ! the tender concerns 
that I have mentioned, the claims and ties that 
I see at this moment, and feel around me, how 
they unnerve Courage, aud wither Resolution ! 
To your patronage, as a man of some genius, 
you have allowed me a claim ; and your esteem, 
88 an honest man, I know is my due : To these, 
Sir, permit me to appeal ; by these may I ad- 
jure you to save me from that misery which 
threatens to overwhelm me, and which, with 
my latest breath I will sav it, I have not deserved. 



No. CLXXII. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP, 

SSAR MADAM, Dccemhcr 3 \, 1792. 

A HfRRY of business, thrown in heaps by my 
absence, has until now prevented my returning 
my grateful acknowledgments to the good fa- 
mily of Dunlop, ar.d you in particular, for that 
hospitable kindness which rendered the four 
days I spent under that genial roof, four of the 
pleasantest I ever enjoyed.— Alas, my dearest 
tiend ! how few and fleeting are those things 
we call pleasures ! On ray road to Ayrshire,' I 
spent a night with a friend whom I much valued ; 
a man whose days promised to be many ; aud 
on Saturday last we laid him in the dust ! 

I January 2, 1793. 

H I HA VI just received yours of the 30th, and 



feel much for your situation. Hoxrever, T hearti- 
ly rejoice in your prospect of recovery from that 
vile jaundice. As to myself, I am better, though, 
not quite free of my complaint. — You must not 
think, as you seem to insinuate, that in my way 
of life I want exercise. Of that I have enough ; 
but occasional hard drinking is the devil to me. 
Against this I have again and again bent my re- 
solution, and have greatly succeeded. Taverns 
I have totally abandoned : it is the private par- 
ties in the family way, among the hard drinking 
gentleman of the country, that do me the mis- 
chief — but even this I have more than half given 
over. 

IMr. Corbet can be of little service to me at 
present ; at least I should be shy of applying, 
I cannot possibly be settled as a supervisor, for 
several years. I must wait the rotation of the 
list, and there are twenty names before mine.— 
I might indeed get a job of officiating, where a 
settled supervisor was ill, or aged ; but that hauls 
me from my family, as I could not remove them 
on such an uncertainty. Besides, some envious, 
malicious devil, has raised a little demur on my 
political principles, and I wish to let that mat- 
ter settle before I offer myself too much in the 
eye of my superiors. I have set, henceforth, 
a seal on my lips, as to these unlucky politics; 
but to you, I must breathe my sentiments. In 
this, as in every thing else, I shall shew the un- 
disguised emotions of the soul. War I depre- 
cate : misery and ruin to thousands, are in the 
blast that announces* the destructive demon. But 



The remainder of this letter has been torn 
away by some barbarous hand. ' 



LETTERS, 179.3. 



No. CLXXIII. 



TO MISS E- 



OF YORK. 



MADAM, 2\st March, 179S- 

Among many things for tvhich I envy those 
hale, long-lived old fellows before the flood, is 
this in particular, that when they met with any 
body after their own heart, they had a charm- 
ing long prospect of many, many happy meet. 
ings with them in after-life. 

Now, in this short, stormy winter day of our 
fleeting existence, when you now and then, in 
the Chapter of Accidents, mi-et an individual 
whose acquaintance is a real acquisition, there 
are all the probabilities against you, that vou 
shall never meet with that valued character 
more. On the other hand, brief as the miser- 
able being is, it is none of the least of the mi- 
series belonging to it, that if there is any mis- 
creant whom you hate, or creature whom you 
despise, the ill run of the chances shall be so 



973 



BUR^fS* WORKS. 



against yott, tliat in Ae overtakings, turnings, 
and jostlings of life, pop, at some unlucky cor- 
ner, eternally comes the wreceVi upon you, and 
will not allow your indignation or contempt a 
moment's repose. As I am a sturdy believer 
in the powers of darkness, I take those to be 
the doings of that old author of mischief, the 
devil. It is well known that he has some 
kind of short-hand way of taking down our 
thoughts, and I make no doubt that he is per- 
fectly acquainted with my sentiments respect- 
ing Miss B ; how much I admired her 

abilities and valued her worth, and how. very 
fortunate I thought myself in her acquaintance. 
For this last reason, my dear Madam, I must 
entertain no hopes of the very great pleasure of 
meeting with you again. 

Miss H tells me that she is sending a 

packet to you, and I beg leave to send you the 
enclosed sonnet, though to tell you the re^l 
truth, the sonnet is a mere pretence, that I may 
have the opportunity of declaring with how 
much respectful esteem I have the honour to 
b^ &c. 



No. CLXXIV.; 

TO PATRICK MILLER, Es*. 
OF DALSWINTON. 

BIR, April, 1793, 

Mr poems having just come out in another edi- 
tion, will you do me the honour to accept of a 
copy ? A mark of my gratitude to you, as a 
gentleman to whose goodness I have been much 
indebted ; of my respect for you, as a patriot 
who, in a venal, sliding age, stands forth the 
champion of the liberties of my country ; and 
of my veneration for you, as a man, whose be- 
nevolence of heart does honour to human nature. 
There was a time. Sir, when I was your de- 
pendant : this language then would have been 
like the vile incense of flattery — I could not have 
used it. — Now that connection* is at an end, 
do me the honour to accept of this honest tribute 
of respect from, Sir, 

Your much indebted humble Servant. 



No. CLXXV. 

TO JOHN FRANCIS ERSKINE, Esa-f 
OF MAR. 

UB, Dumfries, ISth April, 1793. 

Degenerate as human nature is said to be ; 
and in many instances, worthless and unprinci- 



• Alluding to the time when he held the farm of El- 
lisUnd, as tenant to Mr. M. 

t This gentleman, most obligingly favoured the 
Kilitor witb a perfect copy of the origuial letter, and 



pled it is ; still there are bright examples to tha 
contrary : examples that even in the eyes of su- 
perior beings, must shed a lustre on the name of 
man. 

Such an example have I now before me, 
when you, Sir, came forward to patronise and 
befriend a distant obscure stranger, merely be- 
cause poverty had made him helpless, and his 
British hardihood of mind had provoked the ar- 
bitrary wantonness of power. My much es- 
teemed friend, Mr. Riddel of Glenriddel, has 
just read me a paragraph of a letter he had 
from you. Accept, Sir, of the silent throb of 
gratitude ; for words would but mock the emo- 
tions of my soul. 

You have been misinformed as to my final 
dismission from the Excise ; I am still in the 
service. — Indeed, but for the exertions of a gen- 
tleman who must be known to you, Mr. Graham 
of Fintray, a gentleman who has ever been my 
warm and generous friend, I had, without so 
much as a hearing, or the slightest previous in- 
timation, been turned adrift, with my helpless 
family, to all the horrors of want. — Had I had 
any other resource, probably I might have saved 
them the trouble of a dismission ; but the little 
money I gained by my publication, is almost 
every guinea embarked, to save from ruin aa 
only brother, who, though one of the worthiest, 
is by no means one of the most fortunate of 
men. 

In my defence to their accusations, I said, 
that whatever might be my sentiments of re- 
publics, ancient or modern, as to Britain, I ab- 
jured the idea : — That a constitution, which, 
in its original principles, experience had proved 
to be every way fitted for our happiness in so- 
ciety, it would be insanity to sacrifice to an un- 
tried visionary theory :^That, in consideration 
of my being situated in a department, however 
humble, immediately in the hands of people in 
power, I had forborne taking any active part, 
either personally, or as an author, in the present 
business of reform. But that, where I must 
declare my sentiments, I would say there exist- 
ed a system of corruption between the executive 
power and the representative part of the legisla- 
ture, which boded no good to our glorious con- 
stitution ; and which every patriotic Briton 
must wish to see amended. — Some such senti- 
ments as these, I stated in a letter to my gene- 
rous patron Mr. Graham, which he laid before 
the Board at large ; where, it seems, my last 
remark gave great offence j and one of our su- 



allowed him to lay it before the public— It is partly 
printed in Dr. Carrie's Edition. 

It will be necessary to state, that in consequence of 
the poet's freedom of remark on public measures, ma- 
liciously misrepresented to the Board of Excise, he 
was represented as actually dismissed from his office. 
—This report induced Mr. Erskine to propose a sub- 
scription in his favour, which was refused by the poec 
with that elevetion of sentiment that peculiarly cha- 
racterised his mind, and which is so happily displayed 
in this letter. See letter No. 171, in the present vo- 
lume, written by Burns, with even more than his ac. 
customed pathos and eloquence, in further explana- 
tion.— Cbomek. 



«?l«"»rw""^»~-" 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



373 



pervisors general, a Mr. Corbet, was instructed 
to inquire on the spot, and to document me — 
" that my business was to act, not to think ; 
and that whatever might be men or measures, 
it was for me to be silent and obedient." 

BIr. Corbet was likewise my steady friend ; 
BO between Mr. Graham and him, I have been 
partly forgiven ; only I understand that all 
hopes of my getting officially forward, are 
blasted. 

Now, Sir, to the business in wiiich I would 
more immediately interest you. The partiality 
of my COUNTRYMEN, has brought me forward 
as a man of genius, and has given me a charac- 
ter to support. In the poet 1 have avowed 
manly and independent sentiments, which I 
trust will be found in the max. Reasons of no 
less weight than the support of a wife and fa- 
mily, have pointed out as the eligible, and si- 
tuated as I was, the only eligible line of life for 
me, my present occupation. Still my honest 
fame is my dearest concern ; and a thousand 
times have I trembled at the idea of those de- 
grading epithets that malice or misrepresenta- 
tion may affix to my name. I have often, in 
blasting anticipation, listened to some future 
hackney scribbler, with the heavy malice of sa- 
vage stupidity, exulting in his hireling para- 
graphs — " Burns, notwithstanding the fan- 
faronade of independence to be found in his 
works, and after having been held forth to pub- 
lic view, and to public estimation as a man of 
Bome genius, yet, quite destitute of resources 
within himself to support his borrowed dignity, 
he dwindled into a paltry exciseman, and slunk 
out the rest of his insignificant existence in the 
meanest of pursuits, and among the vilest of 
mankind." 

In your illustrious hands, Sir, permit me to 
lodge my disavowal and defiance of these slan- 
derous falsehoods. — Burns was a poor man 
from birth, and an exciseman by necessity : but 
—I will say it ! the sterling of his honest worth, 
no poverty could debase, and his independent 
British mind, oppression might bend, but could 
not subdue. Have not I, to me, a more pre- 

' cious stake in my country's welfare, than the 

, richest dukedom in it ? — I have a large family 
of children, and the prospect of many more. I 

I have three sons, who, I see already, have brought 
into the world souls ill qualified to inhabit the 

I bodies of slaves Can I look tamely on, and 

Bee any machination to wrest from them the 

I birthright of my boys, — the little independent 

I BRITONS, in whose veins runs my own blood ? — 
No ! I will not ! should my heart's blood stream 

. around my attempt to defend it ! 

Does any man tell me, that my full efforts 

I can be of no service ; and that it does not be- 
long to my humble station to meddle with the 

1 concern of a nation ? 

I can tell him, that it is on such individuals 

I as I, that a nation has to rest, both for the 

\ hand of support, and the eye of intelligence. 

I The uninform'd mob, may swell a nation's 



bulk ; and the titled, tinsel, courtly throng, 
may be its feathered ornament ; but the num- 
ber of those who are elevated enough in life to 
reason and to reflect ; yet low enough to keep 
clear of the venal contagion of a court; — these 
are a nation's strength. 

I know not how to apologize for the imper- 
tinent length of this epistle ; but one small re- 
quest I must ask of you farther — When you 
have honoured this letter with a perusal, please 
to commit it to the flames. Burns, in whose 
behalf you have so generously interested your- 
self, I have here, in his native colours drawn 
as he is ; but should any of the people in whose 
hands is the very bread he eats, get the least 
knowledge of the picture, it would ruin the poor 
K A Rj) for ever ! 

My poems having just come out in another 

edition, I beg leave to present you with a copy, 

as a small mark of that high esteem and ardent 

gratitude, with which I have the honour to be. 

Sir, 

Your deeply indebted, 
And ever devoted humble servant. 



No, CLXXVI. 
TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 

April 26, I79S. 

I AM d — mnably out of humour, my dear 
Ainslie, and that is the reason, why I take up 
the pen to you : 'tis the nearest way, (^probatum 
est) to recover my spirits again. 

I received your last, and was much entertain- 
ed with it ; but I will not at this time, nor at 
any other time, answer it. — Answer a letter? I 
never could answer a letter in my life ! — I have 
written many a letter in return for letters I have 
received ; but then — they were original matter 
— spurt-away ! zig, here ; zag, there ; as if the 
Devil that, my grannie (an old woman indeed !) 
often told me, rode in will-o'-wisp, or, in her 
more classic phrase, Spunkie, were looking 

over my elbow Happy thought that idea has 

engendered in my head ! Spunkie — thou shalt 
henceforth be my symbol, signature, and tute- 
lary genius ! Like thee, hap-step-and-lowp, here- 
awa-there-awa, higglety-piggletj-, pell-mell, hi- 
ther-and-yon, ram-stam, happy-go-lucky, up 
tails-n'-by-the-light-o'-the-moon ; has been, is, 
and shall be, my progress through the mosses 
and moors of this vile, bleak, barren wilderness 
of a life of ours. 

Come then my guardian spirit ! like thee, 
may I skip away, amusing myself by and at my 
own light : and if any opaque-souled lubber 
of mankind complain that my elfine, lambent, 
glimmerous wanderings have misled his stupid 
steps over precipices, or into bogs ; let the 
thick-headed Blunderbuss recollect, that he ii 
not Spunkie ; — that 



374 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Sfunkik's wanderings could not copied be ; 
Amid these perils dodc durst walk but he. — 



I have no doubt but scholarcraft may be cauglit 
as a Scotsman catches the itch, — by friction. 
How else can you account for it, that born 
blockheads, by mere dint of handling books, 
grow so wise that even they themselves are 
equally convinced of and surprised at their own 
parts ? I once carried this philosophy to that 
degree that in a knot of country folks who had 
a library amongst them, and who, to the honour 
of their good sense, made me factotum in the 
business ; one of our members, a little, wise- 
looking, squat, upright, jabbering body of a 
tailor, I advised him, instead of turning over 
the leaves, to bind the book on his back, — Johnie 
took the hint ; and as our meetings were every 
fourth Saturday, and Pricklouse having a good 
Scots mile to walk in coming, and, of course, 
another in returning. Bodkin was sure to lay 
his hands on some heavy quarto, or ponderous 
folio, with, and under which, wrapt up in his 
gi-ey plaid, he grew wise, as he grew weary, all 
the way home. He carried this so far, that an 
old musty Hebrew concordance which we had 
in a present from a neighbouring priest, by mere 
dint of applying it, as doctors do a blistering 
plaister, between his shoulders, Stitch, in a 
dozen pilgrimages, acquired as much rational 
theology as the said priest had done by forty 
years perusal of the pages. 

Tell me, and tell me truly, what you think 
of this theory. 

Yours, 

SPUNKIE. 



No. CLXXVII. 
TO MISS K 

MADAM, 

Permit me to present you with the enclosed 
song as a small though grateful tribute for the 
honour of your acquaintance. I have, in these 
verses, attempted some faint sketches of your 
portrait in the unembellished simple manner of 
descriptive truth. — Flattery, I leave to your 
rovERs, whose exaggerating fancies may make 
them imagine you still nearer perfection than 
you really are. 

Poets, Madam, of all mankind, feel most for- 
cibly the powers of beauty ; as, if they are 
really poets of nature's making, their feelings 
must be finer, and their taste more delicate 
than most of the world. In the cheerful bloom 
of SPRING, or the pensive mildness of autumn; 
the grandeur of summer, or the hoary majesty 
of WINTER ; the poet feels a charm unknown to 
the rest of his species. Even the sight of a fine 
flower, or the company of a fine woman (by far 



the finest part of God's works below), have 
sensations for the poetic heart that the herd of 
man are strangers to. — On this last account. 
Madam, I am, as in many other things, indebt- 
ed to ]\Ir. Hamilton's kindness in introducing 
me to you. Your lovers may view you with a 
wish, I look on you with pleasure ; their hearts, 
in your presence, may glow with desire, mine 
rises with admiration. 

That the arrows of misfortune, however they 
should, as incident to humanity, glance a slight 
wound, may never reach your heart — that the 
snares of villany may never beset you in the 
road of life — that innocence may hand you by 
the path of honocb to the dwelling of peace, 
is the sincere wish of him who has the honour 
to be, &c. 



No. CLXXVIIL 
TO LADY GLENCAIRN. 

JIY LAD!', 

The honour you have done your poor poet, 
in writing liim so very obliging a letter, and the 
pleasure the enclosed beautiful verses have givea 
him, came very seasonably to his aid amid the 
cheerless gloom and sinking despondency of dis- 
eased nerves and December weather (supposed 
December, 1793). As to forgetting the family 
of Glcncairn, Heaven is my witness with what 
sincerity I could use those old verses which please 
me more in their rude simplicity than the most 
elegant lines I ever saw. 

If thee Jerusalem I forget, 

Skill part from my right hand.— 

i\Iy tongue to my mouth's roof let cleave. 

If I do thee forget 
Jerusalem, and thee above 

My chief joy do not set. — 

When I am tempted to do any thing i.iipro- 
per, I dare not, because I look on myself as ac- 
countable to your ladyship and family. Now 
and then when I have the honour to be nailed 
to the tables of the great, if I happen to meet 
with any mortification from the stately stupidity 
of self-sufficient squires, or the luxuriant inso- 
lence of upstart nabobs, I get above the crea- 
tures by calling to remembrance that I am pa- 
tronized by the Noble House of Glencairn ; and 
at gala-times, such as New-year's day, a chris.* 
tening, or the Kirn-night, when my punch-bowl 
is brought from its dusty corner and filled up ia 
honour of the occasion, I begin with, — The 
Countess of Glencairn ! ]\Iy good woman with 
the enthusiasm of a grateful heart, next cries. 
My Lord ! and so the toast goes on until I end 
with Lady Harriet's little angel I whose epi- 
thalamium I have pledged myself to write. 

When I received your ladyship's letter, I ww 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



S7S 



ju«t in tie act of transcribing for you some verses 
I have lately composed ; and meant to have sent 
them my first leisure hour, and acquainted you 
with my late change of life. I mentioned to my 
lord, my fears concerning my farm. Those 
fears were indeed too true ; it is a bargain would 
have ruined me but for the lucky circumstance 
of my having an excise commission. 

People may talk as they please, of tlie igno- 
miny of the excise ; £50 a year will sup[)ort 
my wife and children and keep me indcpendont 
of the world ; and I would niuc'h rather h ive it 
aaid that my profession borrowed credit from me, 
than that I borrowed credit from my profession. 
Another advantage 1 have in this bibiness, is 
the knowledge it gives me ot the various sluidcs 
of human character, consequently assi-sting me 
Tastly in my poetic pursuits. I hnd the inost 
ardent enthusiasm for the muses wlieti nobody 
knew me, but myself, and that ardour is by no 
means cooled now that my Lcird Glcnr:arn's 
goodness has introduced mo to all the world. 
Not that I am in haste for the jircss, I have no 
idea of publishing, else I certainly had consulted 
my noble generous patron ; but after acting the 
part of an honest man, and supiwrting my fa- 
mily, my whole wishes and views are directed 
to poetic pursuits. I am aware that .though I 
were to give performances to the world superior 
to my former works, still if they were of the 
same kind with those, the comjiaratlve recep- 
tion they would meet with would mortify me. 
I have turned my thoughts on the drama. I do 
not mean the stately buskin of the tragic muse. 



Does not your ladyship think that an Edinburgh 
theatre would be more amused with affectation, 
folly and whim of true Scottish growth, than 
manners which by far the greatest part of the 
audience can only know at second hand ? 
I have the honour to be 

Your ladyship's ever devoted 
And grateful humble servant. 



a talent for, poetry ; none ever despised it who 
had pretensious to it. The fates and characterfl 
of the rhyming tribe often employ my thoughts 
when I am disposed to he melancholy. There 
is not, among all the niartyrologies that ever 
were penned, so rueful a narrative as the lives of 
the poets. — In the comparative view of wretches, 
the criterion is not what they are dooaied to suf- 
fer, but how they are formed to bear. Take a 
being of our kind, give him a stronger imagi- 
nation ai:d a more delicate sensibility, which be- 
tween them will ever engender a more ungovern- 
able set of passions than are the usual lot of man ; 
implant in hiui an irresistible impulse to some idle 
vagarv, such as, arranging wild flowers in fan- 
tastical nosegays, tracing the grasshopper to his 
haunt by his chirping song, watching the fribks 
(if the little minnows in the sunny pool, or 
hunting after the intrigues of butterflies— in 
i-liort, send him adiift after some pursuit which 
slivll eternally, mislead him from the path of 
lucre, and yet curse him with a keener relish 
than any man living, for the plasures that lucre 
can purchase ; lastly, fill up the measure of his 
woes by bestowing on him a spurning sense of 
his o^^•n dignity, and you have created a wight 
nearly as miserable as a poet. To you, Modaoi, 
I need not recount the fairy pleasures the muse 
bestows to counterbalance this catalogue of evils. 
Bewitching poetry is like bewitching woman ; 
she has in all ages been accused of misleading 
mankind from the counsels of wisdom and the 
paths of prudence, involving them in difficulties, 
baiting them with poverty, branding them with 
infamy, and plunging them in the whirling vor- 
tex of ruin j yet where is the man but must owa 
that all happiness on earth is not worthy the 
name — that even the holy hermit's solitary pros- 
pect of paradisaical bliss is but the glitter of a. 
northern sun, rising over a frozen region, com- 
pared with the many pleasures, the nameless 
raptures that we owe to the lovely Queen of thd 
heart of Alan ! 



No. CLXXIX. 
TO MISS CHALMERS. 

MADAM, August, 1793. 

SosiE rather unlooked-for accidents have pre- 
vented my doing myself the honour of a second 
risit to Arbiegland, as I was so hospitably invit- I 
•d, and so positively meant to have done. — 
However, I still hope to have that pleasure be- 
fore the busy months of harvest begin. 

I enclose you two of my late pieces, as some 
kind return for the pleasure I have received in 
perusing a certain MS. volume of poems in the 
possession of Captain Riddel. To repay one 
with an old song, is a proverb, whose force you. 
Madam, I know will not allow. ^V'hat is said 
of illustrious descent is; I believe, equally true of] 



No. CLXXX. 

TO JOHN M'MURDO, Esq. 

SIR, • December, 179S. 

It is said that we take the greatest liberties 
with our greatest friends, and I pay myself a 
very high compliment in the manner in which 
I am going to apply the remai k. I have owed 
you money longer than ever I owed it to any 
man. — Here is Ker's account, and here are six 
guineas ; and now, I don't owe a shilling to 
man — or woman either. But for these damned 
dirty, dog's ear'd little pages,* I had done my- 
self the honour to have waited on you long ago. 
Independent of the obligations your hospitality 



• Scottish bank notes. 



376 



BURNS* WORKS, 



has laid me anr?er, tlie consciousness of your su- i 
periority in the rank of man and gentleman, of 
itself was fully as much as I could ever make 
head against ; but to owe you money too, was 
more than I could face. 

I think I once mentioned something of a col- 
lection of Scotch songs I have for some yeare 
been making : I send you a perusal of what I 
have got together. I could not conveniently 
spare them above five or six days, and five or 
six glances of them will probably more than suf- 
fice you. A very few of them are my own. 
When you are tired of them, please leave them 
with Mr. Clint, of the King's Arms. There is 
not another copy of the collection in the world ; 
and 1 shall be sorry that any uu fortunate negli 
gence should deprive me of what has cost rae a 
good deal of pains. 



LETTERS, 179*, 1795, 179G. 

No. CLXXXI. 

TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN, 

WITH A COPT OF " BRUCE* S ADDRESS TO HIS 
TROOPS AT BANNOCKBURN." 

MT LORD, Dumfries, 12/A Jan. 1794. 

Will your lordship allow me to present you 
with the enclosed little composition of mine, as 
a small tribute of gratitude for that acquaint- 
ance with which you have been pleased to ho- 
nour me. Independent of ray enthusiasm as a 
Scotsman, I have rarely met with any thing in 
nistory which interest my feelings as a man, 
equal with the story of Bannockburn. On the 
one hand, a cruel, but able usurper, leading on 
the finest army in Europe to extinguish the last 
spark of freedom among a gieatly-daring, and 
greatly-injured people : on the other hand, the 
desperate relics of a gallant nation, devoting 
themselves to rescue their bleeding country, or 
perish with her. 

Liberty ! thou art a prize truly, and indeed 
invaluable !— for never canst thou be too dearly 
bought ! 

I bare the honour to be, &c. 



No. CLXXXIL 

TO aras. RrooEL, 

WHO WAS TO BESPKAK A PLAT ONE KVKNIKO 
AT TBE DOMFRIES THEATRE. 

I AM thinking to send mjr Address to some 
periodical publication, but it has not got your 
sanction, so pray look over it. 

Aa to the Tiiesday's play, let ma beg of you, 



my dear Madam, let me beg of yon to give at. 
The Wonder, a Woman keeps a Secret; to 
wi* .b please add, TJie Spoiled Child — you will 
1"^ jly oblige me by so doing. 

Ah, what an enviable creature you are ! 
There now, this cursed gloomy blue-devil day, 
you are going to a party of choice spirits— 

" To play the shapes 
Of frolic fancy, and incessant form 
Those rapid pictures, that assembled train 
Of fleet ideas, never join'd before. 
Where lively wit excites to gay surprise ; 
Or folly, painting humour, grave himself, 
Calls laughter forth, deep-shaking every nerve." 

But as you rejoice with them that do rejoice, 
do also remember to weep with them that weep, 
and pity your melancholy friend. 



No. CLXXXin. 
TO A LADY, 

IN FAVOUR OF A PLATEr's BENEFIT. 
MADAM, 

You were so very good as to promise me to 
honour my friend with your presence on his 
benefit-night. That night is fixed for Friday 
first : the play a most interesting one ! The 
ivay to keep Him. I have the pleasure to know 
Mr. G. woll. His merit as an actor is gene- 
rally acknowledged. He has genius and worth 
which would do honour to patronage : he is a 
poor and modest man ; claims which, from 
their very silence, have the more forciljle power 
on the generous heart. Aliis, for pity ! that, 
from the indolence of those who have the good 
things of this life in their gift, too often does 
brazen-fronted importunity snatch that boon, 
the rightful due of retiring, humble, want ! Of 
all the qualities we assign to the author and di- 
rector of Nature, by far the most enviable is— 
to be able " To wipe away all tears from all 
eyes." O what insignificant, sordid wretches 
are they, however chaace may have loaded them 
with wealth, who go to their graves, to their 
magnificent mausoleums, with hardly the con- 
sciousness of having made one poor honest heart 
happy ! 

But I crave your pardon, Madam ; I came to 
beg, not to preach. 



No. CLXXXIV. 

EXTRACT OF A LETTER 



TO MR. 



1794. 
1 AM extremely obliged to you for your kind 
mention of my interests, in a letter which Mr 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



377 



b showed me. At present, my situation 

in life must be in a great measure stationary, 
at least for two or three years. The statement 
is this — I am on the supervisor's list ; and as 
we come on there by precedency, in two or 
three years I shall be at the head of that list, 
and be appointed of course — then a Friend 
Blight be of service to me in getting me into a 
place of the kingdom which I would like. A 
supervisor's income varies from about a hundred 
and twenty, to two hundred a-year ; but the 
business is an incessant drudgery, and would be 
nearly a complete bar to every species of litera- 
ry pursuit. The moment I am appointed su- 
pervisor in the common routine, I may be no- 
minated on the collector's list ; and this is al- 
ways a business purely of political patronage, A 
collectorship varies much, from better than two 
hundred a-year to near a thousand. They also 
come forward by precedency on the list, and 
have, besides a handsome income, a life of com- 
plete leisure. A life of literary leisure, with a 
a decent competence, is the summit of my wish- 
es. It would be the prudish affectation of silly 
pride in me, to say that I do not need or would 
not be indebted to a political friend ; at the 
same time. Sir, I by no means lay my affairs 
before you thus, to hook my dependent situa- 
tion on your benevolence. If, in my progress 
of life, an opening should occur where the good 
offices of a gentleman of your public character 
and political consequence might bring me for- 
ward, I will petition your goodness with the 
same frankness and sincerity as I now do my- 
self the honour to subscribe myself, &c. 



No. CLXXXV. 
TO MRS. RIDDEL. 

SXAR MADAM, 

I MEANT to have called on you yesternight, 
but as I edged up to your box-door, the first 
object which greeted my view, was one of those 
lobster-coated pup|)ies, sitting like another dra- 
gon, guarding the Hesperian fruit. On the 
conditions and capitulations you so obligingly 
offer, I shall certainly make my weather-beaten 
rustic phiz a part of your box-furniture on 
Tuesday, when we may arrange the business of 
•the visit. 



Among the profusion of idle compliments 
which insidious craft, or unmeaning folly inces- 
santly offers at your shrine — a shrine, how far 
exalted above such adoration—permit me, were 
it but for rarity's sake, to pay you the honest 
tribute of a warm heart, and an independent 
mind ; and to assure you, that I am, thou most 
amiable, and most accomplished of thy sex, 
with the most respectful esteem, and fervent re- 
gard, thine, &c 



No. CLXXXVI. 

TO THE SAME. 

I WILL wait on you, my ever-valued friend, 
but whether in the morning I am not sure. 
Sunday closes a period of our curst revenue bu 
sincss, and may probably keep me employed 
with my pen until neon. Fine employment for 
a poet's pen ! There is a species of the human 
genus that I call the gin-horse class : what en- 
viable dogs they are. Round, and round, and 
round they go, — Mundell's ox that drives his 
cotton mill, is their exact prototype — without 
an idea or a wish beyond their circle : fat, 
sleek, stupid, patient, quiet, and contented ; 
while here I sit, altogether Novemberish, a d — 
melange of fretfulness and melancholy ; not 
enough of the one to rouse me to passion, nor 
of the other to repose nie in torpor ; my soul 
flouncing and fluttering round her tenement, 
like a wild finch, caught amid the horrors of 
winter, and newly thrust into a cage. Well, I 
am persuaded that it was of me the Hebrew 
sage prophesied, when he foretold — " And be- 
hold, on whatsoever this man doth set his heart, 
it shall not prosper !" If ray resentment is awak- 
ened, it is sure to be where it dare not squeak ; 
and if — 



Pray that wisdom and bliss be more frequent 
visitors of 

R. B. 



No. CLXXXVII. 
TO THE SAME. 

I HATE this moment got the song from 

S , and I am sorry to see that he has spoilt 

it a good deal. It shall be a lesson to me how 
I lend hinv any thing again. 

I have sent you Werter, truly happy to have 
any the smallest opportunity of obliging you. 

'Tis true, Madam, I saw you ouce since I 

was at \V ; and that onco froze the very 

life-blood of my heart. Your reception of me 
was such, that a wretch meeting the eye of his 
judge, about to pronounce sentence of death on 
him, could only have envied my feelings and si- 
tuation. I3ut I hate the theme, and never more 
shall write or speak on it. 

One thing 1 shall proudly say, that I can pay 
Wis. a higher tribute of esteem, and ap- 
preciate her amiable worth more truly, than any 
man whom I have seen approach her. 



378 



BURNS' WORKS. 



No. CLXXXVIIi; 
TO THE SAIME. 

I HAVE often to]d you, my dear friend, that 
you had a spice of caprice iu your compositiou, 
and you have as often disavowed it, even per- 
haps while your opinions were, at the moment, 
irrefiragably proving it. Could any thing es- 
trange me from a friend such as you ? — No ! 
To-morrow I shall have the honour of waiting 
on you. 

Farewell, thou first of friends, and most ac- 
complished of womfen ; even with all thy little 
caprices ! 



No, CLXXXIX. 

TO THE SAJIE. 

MADAM, 

I RETURN your common-place book. I have 
perused it with much pleasure, and woujd have 
continued my criticisms, but as it seems the 
critic has forfeited your esteem, his strictures 
must lose their value. 

If it is true that " offences come only from 
the heart," before you I am guiltless. To ad- 
mire, esteem, and prize jou, as the most accom- 
plished of women, and the first of friends — if 
these are crimes, I am the most oflfending thing 
alive. 

In a face where I used to meet the kind com- 
jjljcency of friendly confidence, now to find cold 
jieglect, and contemptuous scorn — is a wrench 
that my heart can ill bear. It is, liowever, 
some kind of miserable good liu-k ; that while 
de-haut-en-has rigour may depress an unnffend- 
ing wretch to the ground, it has a tendency to 
rouse a stubborn something in his bosom, which, 
though it cannot heal the wounds of his soul, is 
at least an opiate to blunt their poignancy. 

With the profoundest respect for your abili- 
ties ; the most sincere esteem, and ardent re- 
gard for your gentle heart and amiable manners ; 
and the most fervent wish and prayer for your 
welfare, peace, and bliss, I have the honour to 
be, Madam, your most devoted humble servant. 



No. CXC. 

TO JOHN SYSIE, Esq. 

You know that among other high dignities, 
you have the honour to be my supreme court 
of critical judicature, from which there is no 
appeal. I enclose you a song which I compos- 
ed since I saw you, and I am going to give you 
the history of it. Do you know that among 
much that I admire in the characters and man- 



ners of those great folks whom I have now the 

honour to call my acquaintances, the • 

family, there is nothing charms me more thaa 
than iMr. O's unconcealablc attachment to that 
incomparable woman. Did you ever, my dear 
Syme, meet with a man who owed more to the 
Divine Giver of all good things than Mr. O. ? 
A fine fortune ; a pleasing exterior ; self-evident 
amiable dispositions, and an ingenious upright 
mind, and that informed too, much beyond the 
usual run of young fellows of his rank and for- 
tune ; and to all this, such a woman ! — but of 
her I shall say nothing at all, in despair of say- 
ing any thing adequate : in my song, I have en- 
deavoured to do justice to what would be his 
feelings on seeing, in the scene I have drawn, 
the habitation of his Lucy. As I am a good 
deal pleased with my performance, I in my first 
fervour thought of sending it to Mrs. O— — , 
but on second thoughts, perhaps what I offer as 
the honest incense of genuine respect, might, 
from the well-known chai-acter of poverty and 
poetry, be construed into some modification or 
other of that servility which my soul abhors*. 



CXCI. 
TO MISS — 



JfADAM. 

Nothing short of a kind of absolute necessi- 
ty could have made me trouble you with this 
letter. Except my ardent and just esteem for 
your sense, taste, and worth, every sentiment 
arising in my breast, as 1 put pen to paper to you, 
is painful. The scenes I have passed with the 
friend of my soul, and his amiable connexions ! 
The wrench at my heart to think that he is 
gone, for ever gone from me, never more to 
meet iu the wanderings of a weary world ; and 
the cutting reflection of all, that I had most un- 
fortunately, though most undeservedly, lost the 
confidence of that soul of worth, ere it took its 
flight. 

These, Madam, are sensations of no ordinary 
anguish. — However, yon, also, may be offen^jed 
with some imputed improprieties of mine ; sen- 
sibility you know I possess, and sincerity none 
will deny me. 

To oppose those prejudices which have been 
raised against me, is not the business of this 
letter. Indeed it is a warfare I know not how 
to wage. The powers of positive vice I can in 
some degree calculate, and against direct male- 
volence I can be on my guard ; but who can 
stimato the fatuity of giddy caprice, or ward 
off the unthinking mischief of precipitate folly ? 

I have a favour to request of you. Madam, 
and of your sister ISIrs. , through your 



* The song enclosed was the one beginning with, 
•• O wat ye wha's in yon tovn." 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



379 



means. You know, that, at the wish of my late 
friend, I made a collection of all my trifles in 
verse which I had ever written. They are ma- 
ny of them local, some of them puerile, and sil- 
ly, and all of them unfit for the public eye. As 
I have some little fame at stake, a fame that i 
trust may live, when the h:;te of those who 
" watch for my halting;," and th.e contumelious 
sneer of those whom accident has made ray su- 
periors, will, with themselves, be gone to the 
regions of oblivion ; I am uneasy now for the 

fate of those manuscripts. — Will Mrs. have 

the goodness to destroy tlicm, or return them to 
me ? As a pledge of friendship they were be- 
stowed ; and that circumstance, indeed, was all 
their merit. Most unhappily for me, that me- 
rit they no longer possess, and I hope that Mrs. 

's goodness, which I well know, and ever 

will revere, will not refuse this favour to a man 
whom she once held in some degree of estima- 
tion. 

With the siacercst esteem I have the honour 
to be, Madam, &c. 



No. CXCII. 
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

A MIND DISEASED. 

2bth Fehruan/, 1794. 
Cakst thou minister to a mind diseased ? 
Canst thou speak peace and rest to a soul tossed 
on a sea of troubles, without one friendly star to 
guide her course, and dreading that the next 
surge may overwhelm her ? Canst thou give to 
a frame, trcmblinijly alive to the tortures of sus- 
pense, the stability and hardihood of the rock 
that braves the blast ? If thou canst not do tlic 
least of these, why wouldst thou disturb me in 
my miseries, with thy inquiries after ma ? 



For these two months I have not been able to 
lift a pen. My constitution and frame were, ab 
origine, blasted with a deep incurable taint of 
hypochondria, which poisons my existence. Of 
late a number of domestic vexations, and some 

pecuniary share in the ruin of these times ; 

losses which, though trifling, were yet what I 
could ill bear, have so irritated me, that my 
feelings at times could only be envied by a re- 
probate spirit listening to the sentence that 
dooms it to perdition. 

Are you deep in the language of consolation .•• 
I have exhausted in reflection every topic of 
comfort. A heart at ease would have been 
charmed with my sentiments and reasonings ; 
but as to myself, I was like Judas Isciriot 
preaching the gospel j he might melt and mould 
the hearts of those around him, but his own 
Icept its native incorrigibility. 

Still there arc two great pillars that bear us 



up, amid the wreck of misfortune and misery. 
The ONE is composed of the different modifica- 
tions of a certain noble, stubborn something in 
man, known by the names of courage, fortitude, 
magnanimity. The othek. is made up of ttyose 
feelings and sentiments, which, however the 
sceptic may deny them, or the enthusiast dis- 
figure them, are yet, I am convinced, original 
and component parts of the human soul ; those 
senses of the mind, if I rnay be allowed the 
expression, which connect us with, and link 
us to, those awful obscure realities — an all- 
[i;)\verful and equally beneficent God ; and a 
wdtld to come, beyond death and the grave. 
The first gives the nerve of combat, while a ray 
of hope beams on the field ; — the last pours the 
balm of comfort into the wounds which time 
can never cure. 

I do not remember, my dear Cunningham, 
that you and I ever talked on the subject of re- 
ligion at all. I know some who laugh at it, as 
the trick of the crafty few, to lead the undis- 
cerning many ; or at most as an uncertain ob- 
scurity, which mankind can never know any 
thing of, and with which they are fools if they 
give themselves much to do. Nor would I 
quarrel with a man for his irreligion, any more 
than I would for his want of a musical ear. I 
wou!d regret that he was shut out from what, 
to me and to others were such superlative sources 
of enjoyment. It is in this point of view, and 
for this reason, that I will deeply imbue the 
mind of every child of mine with relipion. If 
my son should happen to be a man of feeling, 
sentiment, and taste, I shall thus add largely to 
his enjoyments. Let me flatter myself that this 
sweet little fellow who is just now running 
about my desk, will be a man of a melting, ar- 
dent, glowing heart ; and an imagination, de- 
lighted with tiie painter, and rapt with the 
poet. Let me figure him, wandering out in a 
sweet evening, to inhale the balmy gales, and 
enjoy the growing luxuriance of the spring ; 
himself the while in the blooming youth of life. 
He looks abroad on all nature, and through na- 
ture up to nature's God. His soul, by swift, 
delighting degrees, is wrapt above this sublu- 
nary sphere, until he can be silent no longer, 
and bursts out into the glorious enthusiasm of 
Thomson 

" These, as they change, Almighty Father, thew 
Are but the varied God. — The rolling year 
Is full of thee." 

And so on, in all the spirit and ardour of that 
charming hymn. 

These are no ideil pleasures ; they are ical 
delights, aud I ask what of the delights among 
the sons of men are superior, not to say, equal 
to them ? And they have this precious, vast ad- 
dition, that conscious virtue stamps them for 
her own ; aud lays hold on them to bring her- 
self into the presence of a witnessing, judging, 
and approving God. 



380 



No. CXCIII. 
TO . 



BURNS' WORKS. 

No. CXCIV, 
TO THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN. 



Borroszs bimself to be writing from the 

DEAD TO THE LIVING. 
MADAM, 

I DARE say this is the first epistle you ever 
received from this nether world. I write you 
from the regions of Hell, amid the horrors of 
the damned. The time and manner of my lea- 
ving your earth I do not exactly know ; as I 
took my departure in the heat of a fever of in- 
toxication, contracted at your too hospitable 
mausion ; but on my arrival here, I was fairlv 
tried and sentenced to endure the purgatorial 
tortures of this infernal confine, for the space of 
ninety-nine years, eleven months, and twenty- 
nine days ; and all on account of the improprie- 
ty of my conduct yesternight under your roof. 
Here am I, laid on a bed of pitiless furze, witli 
»ny aching head reclined on a iiillow of ever- 
piercing thorn, while an infernal tormentor, 
wrinkled, and old, and cruel, his name, I think, 
is Mecollection, with a whip of scorpions, for- 
bids peace or rest to approach me, and keeps 
anguish eternally awake. Still, Madam, if I 
could in any measure be reinstated in the good 
opinion of the fair circle whom my conduct last 
night so much injured, I think it wouhl be an 
alleviation to my torments. For this reason I 
trouble you with this letter. To the men of 

the company I will make no apology Your 

liusband, who insisted on my drinking more 
than I chose, has no right to blame me ; and 
the other gentlemen were partakers of my guilt. 
But to you. Madam. I have much to apologize. 
Your good opinion I valued as one of the great- 
est acquisitions I had made on earth, and I was 
truly a beast to forfeit it. There was a Miss 

1 too, a woman of fine sense, gentle and 

unassuming manners — do make, on my part, a 
miserable d — d wretch's best apology to her. A 

Mrs. G , a charming woman, did nte the 

honour to be prejudiced in my favour; this 
makes me hope that I have not outraged her 
beyond all forgiveness — To all the other ladies 
please present my humblest contrition for my 
conduct, and my petition for their gracious par- 
don. all ye powers of decency and decorum ! 
whisper to them that my errors, though great, 
were involuntary-r-that an intoxicated man is 
the vilest of beasts — that it was not in my na- 
ture to be brutal to any one — that to be rude to 
a woman, when in my senses, was impossible 
with me — but — 



MY LORD, 

When you cast your eye on the name at the 
bottom of this letter, and on the title page of 
the book I do myself the honour to send your 
lordship, a more pleasurable feeling than my va- 
nity tells me, that it must be a name not entire- 
ly unknown to you. The generous patronage 
of your late illustrious brother found me in the 
lowest obscurity : he introduced ray rustic muse 
to the partiality of my country ; and to him I 
owe all. My sense of his goodness, and the 
anguish of my soul at losing my truly noble 
protector and friend, I have endeavoured to ex- 
press in a poem to his memory, which I have 
now published. This edition 'i just from the 
press; ami in my gratitude to the dead, and my 
respect for the living (fame belies you, my lord, 
if you possess not the same dignity of man, 
which was your noble brother's characteristic 
feature), I had destined a copy for the Earl of 
Glencairn. I learnt just now that you are in 
town : — allow me to present it to you. 

I know, my lord, such is the vile, venal con- 
tagion which peivadfs the world of letters, 
that professions of respect from an author, par- 
ticularly from a poet, to a lord, are more than 
suspicious. I claim my by-past conduct, and 
my feelings at this moment, as exceptions to the 
too just conclusion. Exalted as are the honours 
of your lordship's name, and unnoted as is the 
obscurity of mine ; with the uprightness of aa 
honest man, I come before your lordship, with 
an offering, however humble, 'tis all I have to 
give, of ray grateful respect ; and to beg of you, 
my lord, — 'tis all I have to ask of you, that you 
will do me the honour to accept of it. 

I have the honour to be, &c. • 



No. CXCV. 
TO DR. ANDERSON, 

AUTHOR OF THE LIVES OF THE POETS. 



SIR, 



Regret ! Remorse ! Shame ! ye three hell- 
hounds that ever dog my steps and bay at my 
heels, spare me ! spare me ! 

Forgive the oflFences, and pity the perdition 
of| Madam, ycnxr bumble slave. 



I AM much indebted to my worthy friend 
Dr. Blacklock for introducing me to a gentle- 
man of Dr. Anderson's celebrity; but when you 
do me the honour to ask my assistance in your 
purposed publication, Alas, Sir ! you might as 
well think to cheapen a little honesty at the 
sign of an Advocate's wig, or humility under 
the Geneva band. I am a miserable hurried 
devil, worn to the marrow in the friction of 



The original letter is in the possession of the Ho- 
nourable Mrs. Holland of Poynings. From a memo- 
randum on the back of the letter, it appears to have 
been wrutea io May 1794. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



38t 



holding the noses of the poor publicans to the 
grindstone of Excise ; and like Milton's Satan, 
for private reasons, am forced 

•' To do what yet tho' darned 1 would ab- 
hor e ;" — 

and except a couplet or two of honest execration 



No. CXCVI. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP 

Castle Douglas, 5th June, 1794. 

Here in a solitary inn, in a solitary village, 
am I set by myself, to amuse my brooding fancy 
as I may. — Solitary confinement, you know, is 
Howard's favourite idea of reclaiming sinners ; 
so let me consider by what fatality it happens 
that I have so long been exceeding sinful as to 
neglect the correspondence of the most valued 
friend I have on earth. To tell you that I have 
been in poor health, will not be excuse enough, 
though it is true. I am afraid I am about to 
suffer for the follies of my youth. My medical 
friends threaten me with a flying gout; but I 
trust they are mistaken. 

I am just going to trouble your critical pa- 
tience with the first sketch of a stanza I have 
been framing as I paced along the road. The 
subject is LIBERTY : You know, my honoured 
friend, how dear tiie theme is to me. I design 
it an irregular Ode for General Washington's 
birth-day. After having mentioned the dege- 
neracy of other kingdoms, I come to Scotland 
thus: 

( See Poems, p. 77. ) 

You will probably have another scrtwl from 
me in a stage or two. 



No. CXCVII. 
TO MR. JAMES JOHNSON. 

JIV DEAR FRIEND, 

You should have heard from me long ago ; 
but over and above some vexatious share in the 
pecuniary losses of these accursed times, I have 
all this winter been plagued with low spirits 
and blue devils, so that / have almost hung my 
harp on the willow trees. 

I am just now busy correcting a new edition 
of my poems, and this, with ray ordinary busi- 
IQe^s, finds ine in full employment.* 

• Hunis's nnxicty with regard to the correctness of 
hi* writings w.i< very great. Being questioned a« to 
kis mi>le of composition, he replied, " All my poetry 
IS the elToct u( om)- com)Hj3ition, but of labtjrieus cur- 
rtdivn." 



I send you by my friend Mr. Wallace forty- 
one songs for your fifth volume ; if we cannot 
finish it any other way, what would you think 
of Scots words to some beautiful Irish airs ? 
In the meantime, at your leisure, give a copy 
of the Museum to my worthy friend Mr. Peter 
Hill, bookseller, to bind for me, interleaved 
with blank leaves, exactly as he did the laird 
of Gienriddel's,* that I may insert every anec- 
dote I can learn, together with my own criii- 
cisms and remarks on the songs. — A copy of 
this kind I shall leave with you, the editor, to 
publish at some after period, by way of making 
the JIuseum a book famous to the end of time, 
and you renowned for ever. 

I have got an Highland dirk for which I have 
great veneration ; as it once was the dirk of 
Lord Salmerlno. It fell into bad hands, who 
stripped it of the silver mounting, as well as 
the knife and fork. I have some thoughts of 
sending it to your care, to get it mounted anew. 

Thank you for the copies of my Volunteer 
Ballad. — Our friend Clarke has done indeed 
well ! It is chaste and beautiful. I have not 
met with any thing that has pleased me so 
much. You know, I am no connoisseur ; but 
that I am an amateur — will be allowed me. 



No. CXCVIII. 

TO PETER MILLER, Jun. Es«.f 
OF DALSWINTON. 

DEAR SIR, Dumfries, Nov. 1794. 

Your offer is indeed truly generous, and mo?t 
sincerely do I thank you for it ; but iA my pre- 
sent situation, I find that I dare not accept it. 
You well know my political sentiments ; and 
were I an insular individual, unconnected with 
a wife and a family of children, with the most 
fervid enthusiasm I would have volunteered my 
services : I then could and would have despised 
all consequences that might have ensued. 

My prospect in the Excise is something ; at 
least, it is, encumbered as I am with the wel- 
fue, the veiy existence, of near half-a-tcore 
of helpless individuals, what I dare not sport 
with. 

In the mean time, they are most welcome to 



• This i^the manuscript book containing the re- 
marks on .Scottish ^onjs ami ballads, presented to the 
public, with consideralile additions, in this volume. 

t In a conversation with his friend Mr. Perry, (the 
proprietor of " The Moniing Chronicle"), Mr. Miller 
represented to that gentleman the insufficiency of 
Bnrru's s.il.-iry to answer the imperious deniajids of a 
numerous family. In their sjnipathv for his misfor- 
tunes, and in th ir regret that his talents were nearly 
loit to the world of letters, these gentlemen agreied ea 
Ihf plan of setthng him in London. 

To aeeomplish thl» most desirable object, Mr. Perry, 
very spiritedly, m.-)do the poet a handsome offer of an 
annual stipend for the exercise of his talents ia his 
newspaper. Burns's reasons for refusing thil offer an 
stated in the present letter— CaoMEK. 



^32 



BURNS* WORKS. 



my Ode ; only, let tliem itisei't it as a thincf 
they have met with by accident and unknown 
to me. — Nay, if Mr. Perry, whose honour, ni- 
ter your character of him I cannot (huiht ; if 
he will give me an address and channel by wliicli 
any thing will come safe from those spies with 
which he may be certain that liis correspon- 
dence is beset, I will now and then send him 
any bagatelle that I may write. In the present 
hurry of Europe, nothing but news and politics 
will be regarded ; but against the days of peace, 
which Heaven send soon, my little assistance 
may perhaps fill up an idle column of a News- 
paper. I have long had it in my head to try 
my hand in the way of little prose essays, which 
I propose sending into the world through the 
medium of some Newspaper ; and should these 
be worth his while, to these jMr. Perry shall 
be welcome ; and all my reward shall be, his 
treating me with his paper, which, by the bye, to 
any body who has the least relish for wit,' is a 
high treat indeed. 

With the most grateful esteem, I am ever, 
Dear Sir, &c. 



A hymn of thanksgiving would, in tny opl 
nion, be highly becoming from you at present , 
and in my zeal for your well-being, I earnestly 
press it on you to be diligent in chanting over 
the two enclosed pieces of sacred poesy. My 
best compliments to Mrs. Hamilton and Miss 
Kennedy. 

Yours in the L d 

R. B. 



No. CC. 



No. CXCIX, 

TO GAVIN HAMILTON, Esq. 

MT DEAR SIR, Dumfries. 

It is indeed with the highest satisfaction that 
I congratulate you on the return of " days of 
ease, and nights of pleasure," after the horrid 
hours of misery, in which I saw you suffering 
existence when I was last in Ayrshire. I sel- 
dom pray for any body. " I'm baith dead 
sweer, and wretched ill o't." But most fervent- 
ly do I beseech the great Director of this world, 
that you may live long and be happy, but that 
you may live no longer than while you arc 
happy. It is needless for me to advise' you to 
have a reverend care of your health. I know 
you will make it a point never, at one time, to 
drink more than a pint of wine ; ( I mean an 
English pint), and that you will never be wit- 
ness to more than one bowl of punch at a time ; 
and that cold drams you will never more taste. 
I am well convinced too, th.".t after drinkin 
perhaps boiling punch, you will never mouut 
your horse and gallop home in a chill, late hour, 
— Above all things, as I understand you are 
now in habits of intimacy with that Boanerges 
of gospel powers. Father Auld, be earnest with 
him that he will wrestle in prayer for you, that 
you may see the vanity of vanities in trusting 
to, or even practising the carnal moral works 
of charity, humaniii/, generosity, and Jorgive- 
nets ; things which you practised so flagrantly 
that it was evident you delighted in them ; ne- 
glecting, or perhaps, prophanely despising the 
toholesome doctrine of " Faith v.-ithout works, 
the only anchor of salvation." 



TO MR. SAMUEL CLARKE, Jun. 

DuMFRIKS. 

"J^AR SIR, Sunday Morning. 
I WAS, I know, drunk last night, but I am so- 
ber this morning. From the expressions Capt. 
, made use of to me, had I had no- 



body's welfare to care for but my own, we should 
certainly have come, according to the manners 
of the world, to the necessity of murdering one 
another about the business. The words were 
such as, generally, I believe, end in a brace of 
pistols ; but I am still pleased to think that I 
did not ruin the peace and welfare of a wife and 
a family of children in a drunken squabble. 
Farther you know that the report of certain 
political opinions being mine, has already once 
before brought me to the brink of destruction. 
I dread lest last night's business may be mis- 
represented in the same way. — You, I beg, 
will take care to prevent it. I tax your wish 
for Mrs. Burns's welfare with the task of wait- 
ing as soon as possible, on every gentleman 
who was present, and state this to him, and, as 
you please, shew him this letter. What, after 
all, was the obnoxious toast ? " May our suc- 
cess in the present war be equal to the justice 
of our cause." — A toast that the most outrage- 
ous frenzy of loyalty cannot object to. I request 
and beg that this morning you will wait on the 
parties present at the foolish dispute. I shall 
only add, that I am truly sorry that a man who 

stood so high in my estimation as Mr. , 

should use me in the manner in which I con- 
ceive he has done.* 



* At this period of our Poet's life, when political 
animosity was made the ground of private quarrel, ihe 
f>)Iloiving foolish verses were sent as an attack on 
liunis and his friends for their poUticiI opinions. 
They were written by so;nc member of a club styling 
themselves the Loi/al Natives of Dumfries, or rather 
by the united genius of that elub, which was m.ore dis- 
tuiguished for drunlten loyalty, than either for re- 
spectability or poetical talent. The verses were hand- 
ed over the table to Burns at a convivial meeting, and 
he instantly indorsed the subjoined reply. 

The Loyal Natives' Verses. 

Ve sons of sedition give ear to my song, 

Let Syme, Burns, and Maxwell, pervade every 

throng. 
With, Cracken the attorney, and MundeU the quack. 
Send "WiJIlie the monger to hell with a smack. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



ddd 



No. CCI. 



lO MR. ALEXANDER FINDLATER, 

SHPKaVISOR OP EXCISE, DUMFRIES. 
klR, 

Enclosed are the two schemes. 1 would 
not have troubled you with the collector's one, 
but for suspicion lest it be not right. Mr. Ers- 
kine promised me to make it right, if you will 
have the goodnes to shew him how. As I have 
no copy of the scheme for myself, and the alter- 
ations beln^ very considerable from what it was 
formerly, I hope that I shall have access to this 
scheme I send you, when I come to face up my 
new books. So much for schemes. — And that 
no scheme to betray a friend, or mislead a 
STRANGER ; to seduce a young girl, or rob 
a HKNROOST ; to subvert liberty, or bribe an 
jtxcisEMAN J to disturb the general assem 
BLY, or annoy a cossipping ; to overthrow the 
credit of orthodoxy, or the authority of old 
songs ; to oppose your wishes, or frustrate my 
hopes — siay prosper — is the sincere wish and 
prayer of 

ROBT. BURNS. 



No. CCIL 

TO THE EDITORS OF THE MORNING 
CHRONICLE.* 

GCNTLEMEH, Dumfries. 

You will see by your subscribers' list, that 
I have now been about nine months one of that 
nnnaber. 

I am sorry to inform you, that in that time, 
seven or eight of your papers either have nevei 
heen sent me, or else have never reached me. 
To be depi»/ed of any one number of the first 
newspaper in Great Britain for information, 



a'aiiity and independence, is wliat 1 eoa ill brook 
aad bear ; but to be deprived of that most ad- 
mirable oration of the Marquis of Lansdowne, 
when lie made the -jreat, though ineffectual at* 
tempt, (in the language of the poet, I fear too 
true,) " to save a sinking statf." — this was 
a loss which I neither can, nor will forgive you. 
— That paper, Gentlemen, never reached me ; 
but I demand it of you. I am a buiton ; aud 
must be iutcrested in the cause of liberty : — 
I am a jian ; and the rights of human na- 
ture cannot be indifferent to me. However, 
do not let me mislead you : I am not a man iu 
that situation of life, which, as your subscriber, 
can lie of any consequence to you, in the eyes 
of those to whom situation of life alone 
is the criterion of man. — T am but a plain 
tradesman, in this distant, obscure country 
town : but that humble domicile in which I 
shelter my wife and children, is the castellum 
of a BRITON ; and that scanty, bard-earned in- 
come which supports them, is as truly my pro- 
perty, as the most magnificent fortune, of the 

most PUISSANT JIEMEER of VOUr HOUSE of 
NOBLES. 

These, Gentlemen, are my sentiments ; and 
to them I subscribe my name : and were I a 
man of ability and consequence enough to ad- 
dress the PUBLIC, with (hat name should they 
appear, 

I nm, fcc. 



Bumr— extempore. 

Ye true " Loyal Natives" attend to my song. 

In uproar and riot rejoice the night long; 

Prom envy and hatred your corps is exempt; 

But where is your shiclii from the darts of contempt ? 

• This letter owes its orifjin to the follov.ing cir. 
cumstancc. A neighbour of the Poet's at Dumfries, 
called on him .ind cnmplaincd that he was preS'ly '''s- 
appointe<l in the irregular delivery of the Paper of 
The Morning Chronicle. Burns .isked, " Why do 
not you write to the Editors of the Paper?" GooU 
God, Sir, can / presume to write to the learneii Edi- 
tors of .1 Newspaper ? — Well, i( t/ou arc al'raid of writ- 
ing to the Editors of a Newspaper / am not ; and if 
you think proper, I'll draw up a sketch of a letter, 
which you may copy. 

Bums ture a leaf frjm his excise book and instantly 
produced the sketch which I have transcribed, and 
which is here printed. The poor man thanked liim, 
and took the letter home. However, that caution 
which the watchfiilncs'; of his enemies had taupht him 
to exercise, prompted hini to the prudence of begging 
a friend to wait on the person for whom it was writ. 
ten, and request the favour to have it returned. This 
xequest was complied with, and the paper never ai>- 
peared in print. 



No. ccni. 

TO COL. W. DUNBAR. 

I AM not gone to Elysium, most noble Co 
loufl, but in. sriil here in this sublunary world, 
serving my God by propagating his image, and 
honouring my king by begetting him loyal sub- 
jects. Many happy rctuics of the season await 
my friend ! Blay the thorns of care never be- 
set his path ! May peace be an inmate of his 
bosom, and rapture a frequent visitor of his 
soul ! May the blood-hounds of misfortune ne- 
ver trace his steps, nor the screech-owl ot sor- 
row alarm his dwelling ! May enjoyment tell 
thy hours, and pleasure number thy days, thou 
friend of the Bard ! Blessed be he that bless- 
eth thee, and cursad be he that cuiscth thee ! 



No. CCIV. 
TO MISS FONTENELLE, 

ACCOMPANYING A PROLOGUE TO BE SPOKEN 
FOR HER BENEFIT. 

MADAM, 

In such a bad world as ours, those who add 
to the scanty sum of our pleasures, arc posi- 



d84 



BURNS' WORKS. 



tively our benefactors. To you, Madam, oa 
our humble Dumfries boards, I have been more 
indebted for entertainment than ever I was in 
prouder theatres. Your charms as a woman 
would insure applause to the most indifferent 
actress, and your theatrical talents would insure 
admiration to the plainest figure. This, Madam, 
is not the unmeaning, or -insidious compliment 
of the frivolous or interested ; I pay it from the 
same honest impulse that the sublime of nature 
excites my admiration, or her beauties give me 
delight. 

Will the foregoing lines be of any service to 
you on your approaching benefit night ? If they 
will, I shall be prouder of my muse than ever. 
They are nearly extempore : I know they have 
no great merit ; but though they should add but 
little to the entertainment of the evening, they 
give me the happiness of an opportunity to de- 
clare how much I have the honour to be, &c. 

ADDRESS, 

Spoken hy Miss Fontenelle on her henefit- 
night, Dec. 4, 1795, at the Theatre, Dum- 
fries. 

Still anxious to secure your partial favour, 
And not less anxious, sure, this night than ever, 
A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter, 
'Twould vamp my bill, said I, if nothing better; 
So, sought a Poet, roosted near the skies. 
Told him, I came to feast my curious eyes ; 
Said, nothing like his works was ever printed ; 
And last, my prologue-business slily hinted. — 
" Ma'am, let me tell you," quoth my man of 

rhymes : 
" I know your bent — these are no laughing 

times : 
Can you — but Miss, I own I have my fears, 
Dissolve in pause — and sentimental tears — 
With laden sighs, and solemn rounded sentence. 
Rouse from his sluggish slumbers fell Repent- 
ance ; 
Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand 
Waving on high the desolating brand. 
Calling the storms to bear him o'er a guilty 
land !" 

I could no more — askance the creature eyeing, 
D'ye think, said I, this face was made for cry- 
ing ? 
I'll laugh, that's poz — nay," more, the world 

shall know it ; 
And so, your servant — gloomy Master Poet. 

Firm as my creed. Sirs, 'tis my fix'd belief. 
That Misery's another word for Grief : 
I also think — so may I be a bride ! 
That so much laughter, so much life enjoy'd — 

Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh. 
Still under bleak misfortune's blasting eye ; 
Doom'd to that sorest task of man alive — 
To make three guineas do the work of five : 



Laugh in Misfortune's face— the beldam witcli ! 
Say, you'll be merry, though you can't be rich. 

Thou other man of care, the wretch in love, 
Who long with jiltish arts and airs hast strove ; 
Measur'bt in desperate thought — a rope — ^thy 

neck — 
Or, where the beetling cliff o'erhangs the deep, 
Peerest to meditate the healing leap : 
Would'st thou be cured, thou silly, moping elf. 
Laugh at heir follies — laugh e'en at thyself : 
Learn to despise those frowns now so terrific, 
And love a kinder — that's your grand speci- 
fic— 

To sum up all, be merry, I advise ; 
And as we're merry, may we still be wii«.~- 



No. GOV. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

MY DEAR FRIEND, I5th December, 1794. 

As I am in a complete Decembrish humour, 
gloomy, sullen, stupid, as even the deity of Dul- 
ness herself should wish, I shall not drawl out a 
heavy letter with a number of heavier apologies, 
for my late silence.. Only one I shall mention, 
because I know you will sympathize in it : these 
four months, a sweet little girl, my youngest 
child, has been so ill, that every day, a week or 
less threatened to terminate her existence. There 
had much need be many pleasures annexed to 
the states of husband and father, for God knows, 
they have many peculiar cares. I cannot de- 
scribe to you the anxious, sleepless hours these 
ties frequently give me. I see a train of helpless 
little folks ; me and my exertions all their stay ; 
and on what a brittle thread does the life of man 
hang ! If I am nipt off at the command of fate ; 
even in all the vigour of manhood as I am, such 
things happen every day — gracious God ! what 
would become of my little flock ! 'Tis here that 
I envy your people of fortune — A father on his 
death-bed, taking an everlasting leave of his 
children, has indeed woe enough ; but the man 
of competent fortune leaves his sons and daugh- 
ters independency and friends ; while I — but I 
shall run distracted if I think any longer on the 
subject ! 

To leave talking of the matter so grarelj, I 
shall sing with the old Scots ballad — 

" O that I had ne'er been married, 
I would never had nae care ; 
Now I've gotten wife and bairns. 
They cry, crowd ie, evermair. 

Crowdie ! ance ; crowdie ! twice ; 

Crowdie ! three times in a day: 
An ye crowdie ony mair, 

Ye'll crowdie a' my meal away."— 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



885 



December 2ilh. 
We have had a hiilliant theatre here, this sea- 
son ; only, as all other business has, it experi- 
ences a stagnation of trade from the epidemical 
complaint of the countrv, want of cash. I men- 
tion our theatre merely to lug in an occasional 
Address, which I wrote for the benefit-night of 
one of the actresses, and which is us follows : — 
(See Address, p. 384.) 

25^^, Christmas, Morning. 

This, my much-loved fiiend, is a morning of 
wishes: accept mine — so Heaven hear me ;is 
they are sincere ! that blessings may attend your 
steps, and affliction know you not ! la the 
charming words of my favourite author, The 
Man of Feeling, " May the great spirit bear up 
the weight of thy grey hairs ; and blunt the ar- 
row that brings them lest !" 

Now that I talk of authors, how do you like 
Cowper ? is not the Task a glorious poem ? The 
religion of the Task, bating a lew scraps of Cal- 
vinistic divinity, is the religion of God and Na- 
ture : the religion that exalts, that ennobles man. 
Were not you to send me your Zeluco in return 
for mine? Tell me how you like my marks and 
notes through the book. I would not give a far- 
thing for a book, unless I were at liberty to blot 
it with my criticisms. 

I have lately collected, for a friend's perusal, 
all my letters ; I mean those v/hich I first 
sketched, in a rough draught, and afterwards 
wrote out fair. On looking over some old musty 
papers, which from time to time I had parcelled 
by, as trash that were scarce worth preservin 
and which yet, at the same time, I did not care to 
destroy, I discovered many of those rude sketches, 
and have written, and am writing them out, in 
a bound MS. for my friend's library. As 1 
Wrote always to you the rhapsody of the moment, 
I cannot find a single scroll to you, except one, 
about the commencement of our acquaintance. 
If there were any possible conveyance, I would 
Sud you a perusal of my book. 



.;> No. CCVL 

TO MR. HERON, OF HERON. 

8», 1794, or 1795. 

I ENCLOSE you some copies of a couple of po- 
litical ballads ; one of which, I believe, you have 
never seen. Would to Heaven I could make 
you master of as many votes in the Stewartry. 
But— 

" Who does the utmost that he can, 
Does well, acts nobly, angels could no more." 

In order to bring my humble efforts to bear 
with more effect on tlio foe, I have p' ivii<rlv 
vriatcd a good many copies of both ballads, aiid 



have sent them among friends all about the coua« 
try. 

To pillory on Parnassus the rank reprobatioa 
of character, the utter dereliction of all princl-* 
pie, in a profligate junto which has not only 
outraged virtue, but violated common decency, 
which, spurning even hypocrisy as paltry ini- 
quity below their daring ; — co unmask their fla- 
gitiousness to the broadest day — to deliver such 
over to their merited fate, ia surely not merely 
innocent, but laudable ; is not only propriety, 
but virtue. — You have already, as your auxilia- 
ry, the sober detestation of mankind on the 
heads of your opponents ; and I swear by the 
lyre of Thalia to muster on your side all the vo- 
taries of honest laughter, and fair, candid ridi- 
cule ! 

I am extremely obliged to you for your kind 
mention of my interests in a letter which Mr. 
Syme shewed mc. At present, my situation in 
life must be in a great measure stationary, at 
least for two or three years. The statement is 
this — I am on the supervisors' list, and as we 
come on there by precedencyi in two or three 
years I shall be at the bead of that list, and be 
appointed, nf course. , Then a friend might 
be of service to me in getting me into a place 
of the kingdom which I would like. A super- 
visor's income varies from about a hundred and 
twenty, to two hundred a year ; but the busi- 
ness is an incessent drudgery, and would be 
nearly a complete bar to every species of litera- 
ry pursuit. The moment I am appointed su- 
pervisor, in the common routine, I may be no- 
minated on the collector's list ; and this is al- 
ways a business purely of political patronage. 
A collectorship varies much, from better than 
two hundred a year to near a thousand. They 
also come forward by precedency on the list ; 
and have besides a handsome income, a life of 
complete leisure. A life of literary leisure with 
a decent competence, is the summit of my wishes. 
It would be the prudish affectation of silly pride 
in me to say that I do not need, or would not 
be indebted to a political friend ; at the same 
time, Sir, I by no means lay my affairs before 
vou thus, to hook my dependant situation on 
your benevolence. If, in my progress of life, 
an opening should occur where the good offices 
of a gentleman of your public character and po- 
litical consequence might bring me forward, 
shall petition your goodness with the same 
frankness as I now do myself the honour tosulv- 
scribe myself. Sec*. 



• Part of ;his letter sppcan In Dr. CurrUi td, TOi, 

iu p. 430. 



69 



8Bd 



BURNS* WORKS. 



No. CCVII. 



ADDRESS OF THE SCOTS DISTILLERS, 



THE RIGHT HON. WILLIAM PITT. 



While pursy burgesses crowd your gate, 
•weating under the weight of heavy addresses, 
permit us, the quondam distillers in that part 
of Great Britain called Scotland, to approach 
you, not with venal approbation, but with fra- 
ternal condolence ; not as what you are just 
now, or for some time have been ; but as what, 
in all probability, you will shortly be — We shall 
have the merit of not deserting our friends in 
the day of their calamity, and you will have the 
Utisfaction of perusing at least one honest ad- 
dress. You are well acquainted with the dis- 
wction of human nature ; nor do you need the 
Msistance of a fellow-creature's bosom to inform 
you, that man is always a selfish, often a perfi- 
<liou« being.— This assertion, however the hasty 
conclusions of superficial obsei-vation may doubt 
of it, or the raw inexperience of youth may de- 
ny it, those who make the fatal experiment we 
have done, will feel. You are a statesman, and 
consequently are not ignorant of the traffic of 
these corporation compliments — The little great 
aaan who drives the borough to market, and the 
▼«ry great man who buys the borough in that 
market, they two do the whole business ; and 
you well know, they, likewise, have their price. 
— With that sullen disdain which you can so 
veil assume, rise, illusttious Sir, and spurn 
these hireling eflforts of venal stupidity. At best 
they are the compliments of a man's friends on 
the morning of his execution : They take a de- 
cent farewell ; resign you to your fate ; and hur- 
Tf away from your approaching hour. 

If fams lay true, and omens be not very much 
mistaken, you are about to make your exit from 
that world where the sun of gladness gilds the 
paths of prosperous men : permit us, great Sir, 
irith the sympathy of fellow-feeling to hail your 
paaaage to the realms of ruin. 

Whether the sentiment proceed from the sel- 
fishness or cowardice of mankind is immaterial ; 
but to point out to a child of misfortune those 
who are still more unhappy, is to give him some 
degree of positive enjoyment. In this light, Sir, 
eur downfal may be again useful to you : — 
Though not exactly in the same way, it is not 
perhaps the first time it has gratified your feel- 
ings. It is true, the triumph of your evil star 
i* exceedingly despiteful. — At an age when 
other* are the votaries of pleasure, or underlings 
jn business, you had attained the highest wish 
of a British Statesman ; and with the ordinary 
date of human life, what a prospect was before 
Tou ! Deeply rooted in Royal Favour, you 
overshadowed the land. The birds of passage, 
irhich follow miaisteml tuiuhinc through every 



clime of political faitt and manners, flocked to 
your branches ; and the beasts of the field, (the 
lordly possessors of hills and vallies,) crowded 
under your shade. " But behold a watcher, a 
holy one came down from heaven, and cried 
aloud, and said thus : Hew down the tree, and 
cut off his branches ; shake off his leaves, and 
scatter his fruit ; let the beasts get away from 
under it, and the fowls from his branches!" A 
blow from an unthought-of quarter, one of those 
terrible accidents which peculiarly mark the 
hand of Omnipotence, overset your career, and 
laid all your fancied honours in the dust. But 
turn your eyes. Sir, to the tragic scenes of our 
fate. — An ancient nation that for many age* 
had gallantly maintained the imequal struggle 
for independence with her much more powerful 
neighbour, at last agrees to a union which should 
ever after make them one people. In consi- 
deration of certain circumstances, it was cove- 
nanted that the former should enjoy a stipulat- 
ed alleviation in her share of the public bur- 
dens, particularly in that branch of the revenue 
called the Excise. This just privilege has of 
late given great umbrage to some interested, 
powerful individuals of the more potent part of 
the empire, and they have spared no wicked 
pains, under insidious pretests, to subvert what 
thev dared not openly to attack, from the dread 
which they yet entertained of the spirit of their 
ancient enemies. 

In this conspiracy we fell ; nor did we alone 
suffer, our country was deeply wounded. A 
number of (we will say) respectable individuals, 
largely engaged in trade, where we were not 
only useful but absolutely necessary to our coun. 
try in her dearest interest ; we, with all that 
was near and dear to us, were sacrificed with- 
out remorse, to the infernal deity of political ex- 
pediency ! We fell to gratify the wishes of dark 
envy, and the views of unprincipled ambition ! 
Your foes, Sir, were avowed ; were too brave 
to take an ungenerous advantage ; you fell in 
the face of day. — On the contrary, our enemie*, 
to complete our overthrow, contrived to make 
their guilt appear the villainy of a nation.— 
Yonr down^ only drags with you your pri- 
vate friends and partizans : In our misery axe 
more or less involved the most numerous, and 
most valuable part of the community — all those 
who immediately depend on the cultivation of 
the soil, from the landlord of a province, down 
to the lowest hind. 

Allow us. Sir, yet farther, just to hint at an- 
other rich vein of comfort in the dreary regions 
of adversity ; — the gratulations of an approving 
conscience. In a certain great assembly, of 
which you are a distinguished member, pane- 
gfyrics on your private virtues have so often 
wounded your delicacy, that we shall not dis- 
tress you with any thing on the subject. There 
is, however, one part of your public conduct 
which our feelings will not permit us to pass 
in silence ; our gratitude must trespass on your 
modtsty; we nxiia, worthy Sir, your wb»]« 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



SS7 



iMlitviour to the Scots Cistillers. — In evil hours, 
when obtrusive recollection presses bitterly on 
the tense, let that, Sir, come like a healing 
angel, and speak the peace to youi- soul which 
the world can neither give nor take away. 
We have the honour to be. 
Sir, 
Your sympathizing fellow-sufferers, ' 
And grateful humble Servants, 
John Barleycokn — Preses. 



No. CCVIII. 

TO THE HON. THE PROVOST, BAIL- 
IES, AND TOWN-COUNCIL OF DUM- 
FRIES. 

QXNTLKMSN, 

The liteiary taste and liberal spirit of your 
good town has so ably filled the various depart- 
ments of your schools, as to make it a very 
great object for a parent to have his children 
educated in them. Still, to me, a stranger, with 
my large family, and very stinted income, to 
give my young ones that education I wish, at 
the high school-fees which a stranger pays, will 
bear hard upon me. 

Some years ago your good town did me the 
honour of making me an honorary burgess. — 
Will you allow me to request that this mark of 
distinction may extend so far, as to put me on 
the footing of a real freeman of the town, in 
the schools ? 



that It may find you and yours in prospering 
health and good spirits. Do let me hear from 
you the soonest possible. 

As I hope to get a frank from my friend 
Captain Miller, I shall, every leisure hour, take 
up the pen, and gossip away whatever come* 
first, prose or poesy, sermon or song. In this 
last article, I have abounded of late. I have 
often mentioned to you a superb publication of 
Scottish songs which is making its appearance 
in your great metropolis, and where I have the 
honour to preside over the Scottish verse, as no 
less a personage than Peter Pindar does over 
the English. I wrote the following for a fi- 
vom'ite air. 



If you are so very kind as to grant my re- 
quest,* it will certainly be a constant incentive 
to me to strain every nerve where I can offi' 
cially serve you ; and will, if possible, increase 
that grateful respect with which I have the ho- 
nour to be. 

Gentlemen, 
Your devoted humble Servant. 



No. CCIX. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP, IN LONDON. 

Dumfries, 20th December, n95. 
I BATK been prodigiously disappointed in this 
XtOndon journey of yours. In the first place, 
when your last to me reached Dumfries, I was 
in the country, and did not return until too 
late to answer your letter ; in the next place, 
I thought you would certainly take this route ; 
•nd now I know not what is become of you, or 
whether this may reach you at alL God grant 



December 29. 
SlVCE I began this letter I have been ap- 
pointed to act in the capacity of supervisor here, 
and I assure you, what with the load of business, 
and what with that business being new to me, I 
could scarcely have commanded ten minutes to 
have spoken to you, had you been in town, 
much less to have written you an epistle. This 
appointment is only temporary, and during the 
illness of the present incumbent ; but I look 
forward to an early period when I shall be ap- 
pointed in full form : a consummation devout- 
ly to be wished ! My political sins seem to be 
forgiven me. 



This is the season (New-year's-day is noir 
my date) of wishing ! and mine are most fier- 
vently offered up for you ! May life to you be a 
positive blessing while it lasts, for your own 
sake ; and that it may yet be greatly prolonged, 
is my wish for my own sake, and for the sake 
of the rest of your friends ! What a transient 
business is life ! Very lately I was a boy ; but 
t'other day I was a young man ; and I already 
begin to feel the rigid fibre and stiffening joints 
of old age coming fast o'er my frame. With 
all my follies of youth, and, I fear, a few vice* 
of manhood, still I congratulate myself on hav- 
ing had, in early days, religion strongly impress- 
ed on my mind. I have nothing to say to any 
one as to which sect he belongs to, or what 
creed he believes ; but I look on the man who 
is firmly persuaded of infinite wisdom and good- 
ness, superintending and directing every cir- 
cumstance that can happen in his lot — I felici- 
tate such a man as having a solid foundation for 
his mental enjoyment ; a firm prop and suro 
stay, in the hour of difficulty, trouble, and dis- 
tress ; and a never-falling anchor of hope, whea 
he looks beyond the grave. 



* This rtqucit wai immediately eompUed witli. 



January Iff. 
You will have seen our worthy and ingeni* 
GUI fricid, the Doctor, long ere this. 1 hopo 



S86 



BURNS* WORKS. 



lie is well, and beg to be remembered to him. | 
I have just been reading over again, I dare say 
for the hundred and fiftieth time, his View of 
Society and Manners ; and still I read it with 
delight. His humour is perfectly original— it 
is neither the humour of Addison, nor Swift, 
nor Sterne, nor of any body but Dr. Moore. 
By the bye, you have deprived me of Zduco ; 
remember that, when you are disposed to rake 
up the sins of my neglect from amflng the ashes 
of laziness. 

He has paid me a pretty compliment, by 
qaotiDg me in his last publication. * 



scarcely begun to re;over from that shock, wliea 
I became myself the victim of a most severe 
rheumatic fever, and long the die spun doubtful ; 
until after many weeks of a sick-bed, it seems 
to have turned up life, and I am beginning to 
crawl across my room, and once indeed have 
been before my own door in the street. 

When pleasure fascinates the mental sight, 

Affliction purifies the visual ray. 
Religion hails the drear, the untried night, 

That shuts, for ever shuts ! life's doubtful 
day. 



CCXII. 



i No. CCX. 

TO MRS. RIDDEL. 

20th January, I79G. 
I CANNOT express my gratitude to you for 
allowing me a longer perusal of Anacharsis. 
In fact, I never met with a book that bewitch- 
ed me 80 much ; and I, as a member of the li- 
brary, must warmly feel the obligation you have 
laid us under. Indeed to me the obligation is 
stronger than to any other individual of our so- 
ciety ; as Anacharsis is an indispensable desi- 
deratum to a son of the muses. 

The health you wished me in your morning's 
card, is, I think, flown from me for ever. I 
have not been able to leave my bed to-day till 
about an hour ago. These wifckedly unlucky 
advertisements I lent (I did wrong) to a friend, 
and I am ill able to go in quest of him. 

The muses have not quite forsaken me. The 
following detached stanzas I intend to interweave 
in some disastrous tale of a shepherd.j 



TO MRS. RIDDEL, 

WHO HAD DESIRED HIM TO GO TO THK BIBTM- 
DAY ASSEMBLY ON THAT DAT TO SHKW HIS 



Ml June, 1796. 
I AM in such miserable health as to be utter- 
ly incapable of showing my loyalty in any way. 
Racked as I am with rheumatisms, 1 meet every 
face with a greeting like that of Balak to Ba- 
laam — " Come curse me Jacob ; and come de- 
fy me Israel !" So say I — Come curse me that 
east wind ; and come, defy me the north ! 
Would you have me, in such circumstances, to 
copy you out a love song ? 



I may perhaps see you on Saturday, but I 
will not be at the ball. — Why should 1 ? " man 
delights not me, nor woman either !" Can you 
supply me with the song, Let us all be unhap- 
py together? — do if you can, and oblige It 
pauvre miserable "• B. 



No. CCXI. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Slst January, 1796. 
These many months you have been two 
packets in my debt — what sin of ignorance I 
have committed against so highly valued a 
friend, I am utterly at a loss to guess. Alas ! 
Madam, ill can I afford, at this time, to be de- 
prived of any of the small remnant of my plea- 
sures. I have lately drunk deep of the cup of 
affliction. The autumn robbed me of my only 
daughter and darling child, and that at a dis- 
tance too, and so rapidly, as to put it out of my 
power to pay the last the duties to her. I had 



t Edward, 



No. CCXIIL 

TO MR. JAlklES JOHNSON, Edinbbeoh. 

Dumfries, July 4, 1796. 
How are you, my dear friend, and how cornea 
on your fifth volume? You may probably 
think that for some time past I have neglected 
you and your work ; but, alas ! the hand of 
pain, and sorrow, and care, has these many 
months Iain heavy on me ! Personal and do- 
mestic affliction have almost entirely banished 
that alacrity and life with which I used to woo 
the rural muse of Scotia. 



You are a good, worthy, honest fellow, and 
have a good right to live in this world-i»b«cauw 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



S89 



J»B desefve it. Many a merry meeting this 
publication has given us, and possible it may 
give us more, though, alas ! I fear it. This 
protracting, slow, consuming illness which 
bangs over me, will, I doubt much, my ever 
dear friend, arrest my sun before he has well 
reached his middle career, and will turn over 
the poet to far other and more important con- 
cerns than stuiiying the brilliancy of wit, or the 
pathos of sentiment ! However, hope is the 
cordial of the human heart, and I endeavour to 
cherish it as well as I can. 

Let me hear from you as soon as convenient. 
•^Your work is a great one ; and now that it 
is near finished, I see, if we were to begiu 
again, two or three things that might be mend- 
ed ; yet I will venture to prophecy, that to fu- 
ture ages your publication will be the text- 
book and standard of Scottish song and music. 

I am ashamed to ask another favour of you, 
because you have been so very good already ; 
but my wife has a very particular friend of hers, 
a young lady who sings well, to whom she 
wishes to present the Scots Musical Museum. * 
If you have a spare copy, will you be so oblig- 
ing as to send it by the very first Fly, as I am 
anxious to have it soun. 

Yours ever, 
ROBERT BURNS. 



No. CCXIV. 
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Srow, Sea-bathing Quarters, 1th July, 1796. 

MY DEAR CUNNINGHAM, 

I RECEIVED yours here this moment, and am 
indeed highly flattered with the approbation of 
the literary circle you mention ; a literary circle 
inferior to none iu the two kingdoms. Alas ! 
my friend, I fear the voice of the bard will soon 
be heard among you no more ! for these eight or 
ten months I have been ailing, sometimes bed- 
fast and sometimes not; but these last three 
months I have been tortured with an excruciat- 
ing rheumatism, which has reduced me to near- 
ly the last stage. You actually would not know 
me if you saw me. Pale, emaciated, and so 
feeble, as occasionally to need help from my chair 
—my spirits fled ! fled ! — but I can no more on 
the subject — only the medical folks tell me that 
my last and only chance is bathing and country 



• In this humble and delicate n-.anner did poor 
Bums ask for a copy of a work of which he was prin- 
cipally the founder, and to which ho had contributed, 
graiuitously, not Ics? than 181 original, altered, and 
collected sun gs! Tlie Editor has seen 180 transcribed 
by his own hand, for the Museum. 

This letter was written onthe4lh of July, — the poet 
died on the 21st. No other letters of this intcrc-;ting 
period have been discovered, except one addressed to 
Mrs. Dunlop, of the 12th of July, which Dr. Curric 
very properly supposes to be the last production of the 
dying bard.— Cbomes. 



quarters, and riding. The deuce of the matter 
is this ; when an exciseman is off duty, his sa- 
lary is reduced to ^35 instead of ^£50 — What 
way, in the name of thrift, shall I maintain my- 
seh and keep a horse in country quarters — with 
a wife and live children at home, on £Sb ? I 
mention this, because I had intended to beg your 
utmost interest, and that of all the friends you 
can muster, to move our Commissoners of Ex- 
cise to grant me the full salary. I dare sav you 
know them all personally. If they do not grant 
it me, I must lay my account with an exit truly 
en poete — if I die not of disease, I must perish 
with hunger. 

I have sent you one of the songs ; the other 
my memory does not serve me with, and I have 
no copy here ; but I shall be at home soon, 
when I will send it you. Apropos to being at 
home, Mrs. Burns threatens in a week or two 
to add one more to my paternal charge, which, 
if of the right gender, I intend shall be introduc- 
ed, to the world by the respectable designation of 
Alexander Cunningham Bums : Jly last waa 
James Glencairn ; so you can have no objec. 
tion to the company of nobility. FarewelL 



No. CCXV. 

TO MRS BURNS. 

MT DEAREST I-OVE, Brow, Thursday. 

I DELAYED writing until I could tell you 
what effect sea-bathing was likely to produce. 
It would be injustice to deny that it has eased 
my pains, and I think has strengthened me ; 
but my appetite is still extremely bad. No flesh 
nor fish can I swallow ; porridge and milk ore 
the only thing I can taste. I am very happy to 
hear, by Miss Jess Lewars, that you are well. 
My very best and kindest compliments to her 
and to all the children. I will see you on Sun- 
day. Your affectionate husband, R. B. 



CCXVI. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

MADAM, 12/A July, 1796. 

I HAVE written you so often, without recei- 
ving any answer, that I would not trouble you 
again, but for the circumstances in which I am. 
An illness which has long hung about me, in 
all probability will speedily send me beyond that 
bnuriie whence no traveller returns. Your 
friendship, with which for many years you ho- 
noured me, was a friendship dearest to my soul. 
Your conversation, and especially your corre- 
spondence, were at once highly entertaining and 
instructive. With what pleasure did I use to 
break up the seal ! The remembrance yet adds 



390 



BURNS* WORKS. 



•me pulK uxor* to my poor palpitating heart. 
FarcweU ! ! ! < 

R. B. 



Thk above it snppowd to be the last produc- 
tion of RoBXRT Burns, who died on the 2lBt 
of the mouth, nine days afterwards. He had, 
however, the pleasure of receiving a satisfactory 
explanation of his friend's silence, and an assur- 
ance of the continuance of her fnendship to his 



widow and children ; an assurance that has beea 
amply fulfilled. 

It is probable that the greater part of her let- 
ters to him were destroyed by our bard about 
the time that this last was written. He did 
not foresee that his own letters to her were t« 
appear in print, nor conceive the disappoint* 
ment that will be felt, that a few of this excel- 
lent lady's have not served to enrich and adors 
the collection. 



I f 



391 



THE POET'S CORRESPONDENCE 

WITH 

MR. GEORGE THOMSON. 



T« Poet, besides his ample contributions to the Musical Museum, published by Johnson, en« 
gaged in the somewhat similar, but far more extended undertaking of Mr. George Thomson, 
entitled Select Melodies of Scotland,—^ Work more systematically planned, and scientifically 
executed, as to the Music— and more cha.stene(' in the composition and sentiment of the 
Songs, than any of its precursors ; and which still maintains its superiority over all other col- 
lections as the National Repertory of Scottish Song, both as to the poetry and music. The 
following Correspondence shews the rise and progress, with much of the interesting details 
of our Poet's contributions to Mr. Thomson's Work :— 



No. I. 
MR. THOMSON TO THE POET, 

SOtlCITING HIS CO-OPERATIOK. 

jlR, Edinburgh, September 1792. 

For some years past, I have, with a friend or 
two, employed many leisure hours in selectinu; 
»nd collating the most favourite of our national 
melodies for publication. We have engaged 
Pleyel, the most agreeable composer living, to 
put accompaniments to these, and also to com- 
pose an instrumenUl prelude and conclusion to 
each air, the better to fit them for concerts, both 
public and private. To render this work per- 
fect, we are desirous to have the poetry impro- 
ved, wherever it seems unworthy of the music ; 
and that it it so in many instances, is allowed 
by every one conversant with our musical col- 
lections. The editors of these seem in general 
to have depended on the music proving an ex- 
cuse for the verses ; and hence, some charming 
melodies are united to mere nonsense and dog- 
grel, while others are accommodated with rhymes 
so loose and indelicate, as cannot be sung in de- 
cent company. To remove this reproach, would 
be an easy task to the author of T/ic Cotter's 
Saturday Night ; and, for the honour of Cale- 
donia, I would fain hope he may be induced to 
take up the pen. If so, we shall be enabled to 
present the public with a collection infinitely 
more interesting than any that has yet appear- 
ed, and acceptable to all persons of taste, whe- 
ther they wish for correct melodies, delicate ac- 
«OB>paaimeatS| or ctaractwiitic rersw.— "We 



will esteem your poetical assistance a particular 
favour, besides paying any reasonable price yon 
shall please to demand for it. Profit is quite m 
socoudary consideration with us, and we are re- 

ved to spare neither pains nor expense on the 
publication. Tell me frankly, then, whether 
you will devote your leisure to writing twenty 
or twenty-five songs, suited to the particular 
melodies which I am prepared to send you. A 
few songs, exceptionable only in some of their 
verses, 1 will likewise submit to your considera- 
tion ; leaving it to you, either to mend these, 
or make new songs in their stead. It is super- 
fluous to assure you that I have no intention to 
displace anv of 'the sterliug old songs; those 
only will be removed, which appear quite silly, 
or absolutely indecent. Even these shall all be 
examined by Mr. Burns, and if he is of opinioa 
that any of them are deserving of the music, m 
such cases no divorce shall take place. 

Relying on the letter accompanying this to bo 
forgiven for the liberty I have taken in address- 
ing you, I am, with great esteem, Sir, your 
most obedient humble servant, 

G. THOMSON, 



No. IL 

THE POET'S ANSWER. 

SIR, Dumfries, i6th Sept. 1792. 

I HAVE just this moment got your letter. As 
I the requeet you make to me will poaitJTely add 



892 



BURNS' WORKS. 



to mj enjoTinents in complTing with it, I shall 
enter iuto your undertaking with all the small 
portion of abilities I have, straiDed to their ut- 
most exertion by the impulse of enthusiasm. 
Only, don't hurry me : " Deil tak the hind- 
most" is by no means the cri de guerre of my 
muse. Will you, as I am inferior to none of 
you in enthusiastic attachment to the poetry and 
music of old Caledonia, and, since you request 
it, have cheerfully promised my mite of assist- 
ance — will you let me have a list of your airs, 
with the first line of the printed verses you in- 
tend for them, that I may have an opportunity 
of suggesting any alteration that may occur to 
me. You know 'tis in the way of my trade ; 
still leaving you, gentlemen, the undoubted right 
of publishers, to approve, or reject, at your plea- 
sure, for your own publication. Apropos ! if 
you are for English verses, there is, on my part, 
an end of the matter. Whether in the simplicity 
of the ballad, or the pathos of the song, I can 
only hope to please myself in being allowed at 
least a sprinkling of our native tongue. Eng- 
lish verses, particularly the works of Scotsmen, 
I that have merit, are certainly very eligible. 
Tweedside ; Ah the poor shepherd's mournful 
fate ! Ah Chloris, could I noiv hut sit, &c. 
you cannot mend : But such insipid stuff as. 
To Fanny fair could I impart, &c. usually set 
to Tl^e Mill, Mill O, is a disgrace to the col- 
lections in which it has already appeared, and 
tvould doubly disgrace a collection that will have 
the very superior merit of yours. But more of 
this in the farther prosecution of the business, 
if I am called on for my strictures and amend- 
ments — I say, amendments ; for I will not alter 
except where I myself at least think that I 
amend. 

As to any remuneration, you may think my 
songs either above or below price ; for they 
shall absolutely be the one or the other. In the 
bonest enthusiasm with which I embark in your 
undertaking, to talk of money, wages, fee, hire, 
&C. would be downright prostitution of soul ! 
A proof of each of the songs that I compose or 
amend, I shall receive as a favour. In the rus- 
tic phrase of the season, " Gude speed the 
work !" 

I am. Sir, your very humble Servant, 
R. BURNS. 

P. S.— I have some particular reasons for 
wisliing my interference to be known as little as 
possible. 



Vo. m. 

SIR. TII05IS0N IN REPLY. 

BIAA gi», Edinhurgh, lS</» Oct. 1792. 

I RECEIVED, with much satisfaction, your 
pleaiaat aud obliging letteo and I rctuiu luy 



warmest acknowledgments for the enthusiasm 
with which you have entered into our underta- 
kiug. We have now no doubt of being able to 
produce a collection, highly deserving of public 
attention, in all respects. 

I agree with you in thinking English verses, 
that have merit, very eligible, wherever new 
verses are necessary ; because the English be- 
comes every syear, more and more, the language 
of Scotland ; but, if you mean that no English 
verses, except those by Scottish authors, ought 
to be admitted, I am half inclined to differ from 
you. I should consider it unpardonable to sa- 
crifice one good song in the Scottish dialect, to 
make room for English verses ; but, if we can 
select a few excellent ones suited to the unpro- 
vided or ill-provided airs, would it not be the 
very bigotry of literary patriotism to reject such 
merely because the authors were born south of 
the Tweed ? Our sweet air, JIfg Nannie O, 
which in the collections is joined to the poorest 
stuff that Allau Ramsay ever wrote, beginning, 
While some for pleasure pawn their health, an- 
swers so finely to Dr. Percy's beautiful song, 
O Nancy wilt thou go with me, that one would 
think he wrote it on purpose for the air. How- 
ever, it is not at all our wish to confine you to 
English verses : you shall freely be allowed a 
sprinkling of your native tongue, as you elegant- 
ly express it ; and moreover, we will patiently 
wait your own time. One thing only I beg, 
which is, that however gay and sportive the 
muse may be, she may ahvays be decent. Let 
her not write what beauty would blush to speak, 
nor wound that charming delicacy which forms 
the most precious dowry of our daughters. I 
do not conceive the song to be the most proper 
vehicle for witty and brilliant conceits : simpli* 
city, I believe, should be its prominent feature ; 
but, in some of our songs, the writers have con- 
founded simplicity with coarseness and vulga- 
rity ; although, between tHe one and the other, 
as Dr. Beattie well observes, there is as great i 
ditference as between a plain suit of clothes and 
a bundle of rags. The humorous ballad, or pa- 
thetic complaint, is best suited to our artiest 
melodies; and more interesting indeed in all 
songs than the most pointed wit, dazzling de- 
scriptions, and flowery fancies. 

With these trite obsei-vations, I send you eleven 
of the songs, for which it is my wish to substi 
tute others of your writing. I shall soon trans- 
mit the rest, and, at the same time, a prospectui 
of the whole collection : and you may believe 
we will receive any h'nts that you are so kind 
as to give for improving the work, with the 
greatest pleasure and thankfulness. 

I remain, Dear Sir, &c 



CORRESPONDENCE, 



S9S 



No. IV. 



THE POET TO MR. THOMSON, 

WITH " THE tEA-RlQ." 
MT DZAR SIR, 

Let me tell you that you are too fastidious 
in your ideas of songs and ballads. I own that 
your criticisms are just ; the songs you specify 
in your list have all but one the faults you re- 
mark in them ; but who shall mend the matter? 
Who shall rise up and say — Go to, I will make 
a better ? For instance, on reading over T/te 
Lea-rig, ' I immediately set about trying my 
hand on it, and, after all, I could make nothing 
more of it than the following, which. Heaven 
knows, is poor enough : 

(Seep.2U.) 

Vour observation as to the aptitude of Dr. 
Percy's ballad to the air Nannie O, is just. It 
is besides, perhaps, the most beautiful ballad in 
the English language. But let me remark to 
you, that, in the sentiment and style of our 
Scottish airs, there is a pastoral simplicity, a 
something that one may call the Doric style and 
dialect of vocal music, to which a dash of our 
native tongue and manners is particularly, nay 
peculiarly, apposite. For this reason, and, upon 
my honour, for this reason alone, I am of opi- 
nion (but, as I told you before, iny opiniou is 
yours, freely yours, to approve, or reject, as you 
please), that my ballad of Nannie O might per- 
haps do for one set of verses to the tune. Now 
don't let it eater into your head, that you are 
under any necessity of taking my verses. I have 
long ago made up my mind as to my own re- 
putation in the business of authorship ; and 
have nothing to be pleased or oflfended at, in 
your adoption or rejection of my verses. Though 
you should reject one half of what I give you, 
I shall be pleased with your adopting the other 
Jialf, and shall continue to serve you with the 
same assiduity. 

In the printed copy of my Nannie O, the 
name of the river is horridly prosaic. I will 
Alter it, 

" Behind yon hills where Lugar flows." 

Girvan is the name of the river that suits the 
idea of the stanza best, but Lugar is the most 
agreeable modulation of syllables. 

I will soon give you a great many more re- 
marks on this business ; but 1 have just now 
an opportunity of conveying you this scrawl, free 
of postage, an expense that it is ill able to pay : 
■o, with my best compliments to honest Allan, 
Good be wi* ye, &c. 

Friday night. 



morning before my conveyance goi-s away, I 
will give you Nannie O at length. 

(Seep. 5J13.) 

Your remarks on Ewe-hughts, Marion, ar« 
just : still it has obtained a place among our 
more rlajsiril Scottish songs ; and what with 
many beauties in its composition, and more pre- 
jiuiicfs in its favour, you will not find it easy 
to supplant it. 

In my very early years, when I was thinking 
of goinsT to the West Indies, I took the follow- 
ing^ farewell of a dear girl. It is tjuite trifling, 
and has nothing of the merits of Ewe-bughtt ; 
but it will fill up this page. You must know, 
that all my earlier love-songs were the breath- 
ings of ardent passion, and though it might have 
been easy in after-times to have given them a 
polish, yet that polish, to me, whose they were, 
aiid who perhaps alone cared for them, would 
have defaced the legend of my heart, which 
was so faithfully inscribed on them. Their un- 
couth simplicity was, as they say of wines, their 
race. 

( Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, p. 243.) 

Gala Water and Avid Rob Morris, 1 think, 
will most probably be the next subject of my 
musings. However, even on my verses, speak 
out your criticisms with equal frankness. My 
wish is, not to stand aloof, the uncomplying 
bigot of opiniatrete, but cordially to join issue 
with you in the furtherance of the work. 



No. V. 



Saturday Morning. 
Ai I find I bare itill aa hour to spore this 



THE POET TO MR THOMSON. 

November 8th, 1792. 
If you nsean, my dear Sir, that all the songs 
in your collection shall be poetry of the first 
merit, I am afraid you will find more difficulty 
in the undertaking than you are aware of. 
There is a peculiar rkythmiis in many of our 
airs, and a necessity of adapting syllables to the 
emphasis, or what I would call the feature-notet 
of the tune, that cramp the poet, and lay him 
under almost insuperable difliculties. For in- 
stance, in the air. My wife's a wanton wee 
thing, if a few lines smooth and pretty can be 
adipted to it, it is nil you can expect. The 
following were made extempore to it ; and 
though, on farther study, I might give you 
something more profound, yet it might not suit 
the light-horse gallop of the air so well as thia 
random clink. 

(il/y wife's a winsome wee thing, p. 214.) 

I have just been looklDg orer the CoBitr*4 



394 



BURNS* WORKS. 



lonny Dochier ; and if tlie following rhapsody, 
which I composed the other day, on a charming 

Ayrshire girl, Miss , as she passed through 

this place to England, will suit your taste bet- 
ter than the Collier Lassie, full on and wel- 
come. 

( O saw ye bonnie Lesslie, p. 194.) 

I have hitherto deferred the sublinier, more 
pathetic airs, until more leisure, as they will take, 
^nd deserve, a greater effort. However, they 
are all put into your hands, as clay into the 
bands of the potter, to make one vessel to ho- 
pour, and another to dishouour. Farewell, &c. 



, No. VI. 

THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around. 
The castle o* Montgomery. ( See p. 203. 

Mv DEAR SIR, 14<A November, 1792. 

I AGREE with you that the song, Katherine 
Ogie, is very poor stuff, and unworthy, alto- 
gether unworthy, of so beautiful an air. I tried 
to mend it, but the awkward sound Ogie recur- 
ring so often in the rhyme, spoils every attempt 
at introducing sentiment into the piece. The 
foregoing song pleases myself ; I think it is in 
my happiest manner ; you will see at first glance 
that it suits the air. The subject of the song is 
one of the most interesting passages of my youth- 
ful days ; and, I own that I should be much 
flattered to see the verses set to an air which 
would insure celebrity. Perhaps, after all, 'tis 
the still glowing prejudice of my heart, that 
throws a borrowed lustre over the merits of the 
composition. 

I have partly taken your idea of Auld lioh 
Morris. I have adopted the two first verses, 
and am going on with the song on a new plan, 
which promises pretty well. I take up one or 
another, just as the bee of the moment buzzes 
in my bonnet-lug ; and do you, sans ceremonie, 
make what use you choose of the productions. 
Adieu ! &c. 



No. vn. 



MR. THOMPSON TO THE POET. 

DKAR SIR, Edinburgh, Nov. 1792. 

I WAS just going to write to you, that on 
meeting with your Nannie I had fallen violent- 
ly in love with her. I thank you, therefore, for 
sending the charming rustic to me, in the dress 
you wish her to appear before the public. She 
does you great credit, and will soon be admitted 
into the best company. 



1 regret that your song for the Lea^rig is M 
short ; the air is easy, soon sung, and very pleaf< 
ing ; 80 that, if the singer stops at the end of 
two stanzas, it is a pleasure lost ere it is well 
possessed. 

Although a dash of our native tongue and 
manners is doubtless peculiarly congenial, and 
appropriate to our melodies, yet I shall be able 
to present a considerable number of the very 
Flowers of English Song, well adapted to those 
melodies, which in England at least will be the 
means of recommending them to still greater at- 
tention than they have procured there. But 
you will observe, my plan is, that every air shall 
in the first place have verses wholly by Scottish 
poets ; and that those of English writers shall 
follow as additional songs, for the choice of the 
singer. 

What you say of the JtJwe-hughis is just ; I 
admire it, and never meant to supplant it. All 
I requested was, that you would try your hand 
on some of the inferior stanzas, which are appa- 
rently no part of the original song ; but this I 
do not urge, because the song is of sufficient 
length though those inferior stanzas be omitted, 
as they will be by the singer of taste. You must 
not think I expect alt the songs to be of superla- 
tive merit; that were an unreasonable expecta- 
tion. I am sensible that no poet can sit down dog- 
gedly to pen verses, and succeed well at all times. 

I am highly pleased with your humorous and, 
amorous rhapsody on Sonnie Lesslie ; it is a 
thousand times better than the Collier's Lassie. 
" TLe doil he couMna scaith thee," &c. is an ec- 
centric and happy thought. Do you not think, 
howevrr, that the names of such old heroes as 
Alexander, sound rather queer, unless in pom- 
pous or mere burlesque verse? Instead of the 
line " And never made anither," I would hum- 
bly suggest, " And ne'er made sic anither ;** 
and I Vv'ould fain have you substitute some other 
line for " Return to Caledonie," in the last 
verse, because I think this alteration of the or- 
thography, and of the sound of Caledonia, dis- 
figures the word, and renders it Hudibrastic. 

Of the other song, Mg wife's a winsome wet 
thing, I think the first eight lines very good : 
but I do not admire the other eight, because four 
of them are a bare repetition of the first verse. 
I have been trying to spin a stanza, but could 
make nothing better than the following : do you 
mend it, or, as Yorick did with the love-letter, 
whip it up iu your own way. 

O leeze me on my wee thing, 
IMy bonnie blythsome wee thing ; 
Sae lang's I hae my wee thing, 
I'll think my lot divine. 
Tho' warld's care we share o't, 
And may see meickle mair o't, 
Wi' her I'll blythly bear it, 
And ne'er a word repine. 



You perceive, my dear Sir, I avail vyielf of 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



395 



the liberty which you condescend to allow me, 
by speaking freely what I think. Be assured, 
it is not my disposition to pick out the faults of 
any poem or picture I see : my first and chief 
object is to discover and be delighted with the 
beauties of the piece. If I sit down to examine 
critically, and at leisure, what perhaps you have 
written in haste, I may happen to observe care- 
less lines, the re-perusal of which might lead 
you to improve them. The wren will often see 
what has been overlooked by the eagle. 

I remain yours faithfully, kc, 

P. S. Your verses upon Highland Mary, are 
just come to hand : they breathe the genuine 
spirit of poetry, and, like the music, will last for 
ever. Such verses united to such an air, with 
the delicate harmony of Pleyel superadded, might 
form a treat worthy of being presented to Apollo 
himself. I have heard the sad story of your 
Mary : you always seem inspired when you write 
of her. 



f No. VIII. 

^ THE POET TO MR. THOMSON, 

Dumfries, 1st December, 1792. 
Your alterations of my Nannie O are per- 
fectly right. So are those of " My wife's a 
wanton wee thing." Your alteration of the 
second stanza is a positive improvement. Now, 
my dear Sir, with the freedom which charac- 
terises our correspondence, I must not, cir.iiot 
alter " Bonnie Lesslie." You are ripjlit, tlie 
word " Alexander" makes the line a littie uii 
couth, but I think the thought is pretty. <->f 
Alexander, beyond all other heroes, it may be 
■aid, in the sublime language of scripture, that 
" he went forth conquering and to conejuer." 

** For nature made her what she is. 
And never made anither," (such a person as 
she is.) 

*~ This is in my opinion more poetical than 
" Ne'er made sic anither." However, it is im- 
material : Make it either way. " Caledonie," 
I agree with you, is not so good a word as could 
be wished, though it is sanctioned in three or 
four instances by Allan Ramsay ; but I cannot 
help it. In short, that species of stanza is the 
most difficult that I have ever tried. 

The " Lea-rig" is as follows. (Here the 
poet gives the two first stanzas as before, p. 244, 
with the following in addition.) 

The hunter loe's the morning suu, 
V To rouse the mountain deer, my jo ; 
At noon the fisher seeks the glen, 
Aiosg the burn to steer, my jo ; 



Gie me the hour o' gloamin grey, 
It mak's my heart sae cheery, O 

To meet thee on the lea-rig, 
My ain kind dearie, O. 

I am interrupted. Yours, &e. 



No. IX. 
THE POET TO MR, THOMSON. 

(Auld Rob Morris, p. 192.) 
(Duncan Gray, p. 199.) 

ith December, 1792. 
The foregoing I submit, my dear Sir, to your 
better judgment. Acquit them or condemn 
them as seemeth good in your sight. Duncan 
Gray is that kind of light-hone gallop of an 
air, which precludes sentiment, The ludicroiu 
is its ruling feature. 



No. X. 

THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

(Poortith Cauld, p. 222.) 
( GaUa Water, p. 201.) 

January 1793. ' 
Many returns of the season to you, my dear 
Sir. How comes on your publication ? will 
these two foregoing be of any service to you ? 
I should like to know what songs you print to 
each tune, besides the verses to which it is set. 
In short, I would wish to give you my opinion 
ou all the poetry you publish. You know it 
is my trade, and a man in the way of his trade 
may suggest useful hints, that escape men of 
much superior parts and endowments in other 
things. 

If you meet with my dear and much valued 
C. greet him in my name, with the complimenta 
of the season. 

Yours, &c, 



No. XL 
MR. THOMSON TO THE POET, 

WITH A POSTSCRIPT FROM THE HON. A. KRSKIKK. 

Edinburgh, January 20th, 1793. 
You make me happy, my dear Sir, and thou- 
sands will be happy to see the charmings song* 
you have sent me. Many merry returns of the 
season to you, and may you long continue among 
the sons and daughters of Caledonia, to delight 
them, and to honour younelf^ 



%96 



BURNS'S WORKS. 



The four latt longt with which you favoured 
ne, viz. Auld Sob Morris, Duncan Gray, 
Galla Water, and Cauld Kail, are admirable. 
Duncan is indeed a lad of grace, and his humour 
will endear him to every body. 

The distracted lover in Auld Rob, and the 
happy shepherdess in Galla Water, exhibit an 
excellent contrast ; they speak from genuine 
feelinf;, and powerfully touch the heart. 

The number of songs which I had originally 
in view was limited, but I now resolve to in- 
clude every Scotch air and song worth sing- 
ing, leaving none behind but mere gleanings, 
to which the publishers of omnegatherum are 
welcome. I would rather be the editor of a 
collection from which nothing could be taken 
away, than of one to which nothing could be 
added. We intend presenting the subscribers 
with two beautiful stroke engravings ; the one 
characteristic of the plaintive, and the other of 
the lively songs ; and I have Dr. Beattie's pro- 
mise of an essay upon the subject of our na- 
tional music, if his health will permit him to 
write it. As a number of our songs have doubt- 
less been called forth by particular events, or by 
the charms uf peerless damsels, there must be 
many curious anecdotes relating to them. 

The late Mr. Tytler of Woodhouselee, I be- 
lieve, knew more of this than any body, for he 
joined to the pursuits of an antiquary, a taste 
for poetry, besides being a man of the world, 
and possessing an enthusiasm for music beyond 
most of his contemporaries. He was quite plea- 
sed with this plan of mine, for I may say, it 
las been solely managed by me, and we had se- 
veral long conversations about it, when it wai in 
embryo. If I could simply mention the name 
of the heroine of each song, and the incident 
which occasioned the verses, it would be grati- 
fying. Pray, will you send me any information 
of this sort, as well with regard to your own 
tongs, as the old ones ? 

To all the favourite songs of the plaintive or 
pastoral kind, will be joined the delicate accom- 
paniments, &c. of Pleyel. To those of the co- 
mic or humorous class, I think accompaniments 
•carcely necessary ; they are chiefly fitted for 
the conviviality of the festive board, and a tune- 
fill voice, with a proper delivery of the words, 
renders them perfect. Nevertheless, to these I 
propose adding bass accompaniments, because 
then they are fitted either for singing, or for in- 
strumental performance, when there happens to 
be no singer. I mean to employ our right 
trusty friend Mr. Clarke to set the bass to these, 
which he assures me he will do, con amore, and 
with much greater attention than he ever be- 
stowed on any thing of the kind. But for this 
last class of airs, I will not attempt to find more 
than one set of verses. 

That eccentric bard Peter Pindar, has started 
I know not how many difficulties, about wri- 
tiDg for the airs I sent to him, because of the 
peculiarity of their measure, and the trammels 
. }uij in>f«8« on bis fl/ing Pegasui. I tubjob 



for your perusal the only one I have yet got 
from him, being for the fine air " Lord Gre- 
gory." The Scots verses printed with that air, 
are taken from the middle of an old ballad, call- 
ed. The Lass of Lnchroyan, which I do not 
admire. I have set down the air therefore as a 
creditor of yours. Many of the Jacobite songs 
are replete with wit and humour ; might not 
the best of these be included in our volume of 
comic songs ? 



POSTSCRIPT, 

rROM THE RON. A. XRSKIWX. 

Mr. Thomson has been so obliging as to gire 
me a perusal of ynur songs. Highland Mary is 
most enchantingly pathetic, and Duncan GrVf 
possesses native genuine humour : " spak o* 
lowpin o'er a linn," is d line of itself that should 
make you immortal. I sometimes hear of you 
from our mutual friend C, who is a most ex- 
cellent fellow, and possesses, above all men I 
know, the charm of a most obliging disposition. 
You kindly promised me, about a year ago, a 
collection of your unpublished productions, reli- 
gious and amorous ; I know firom experience 
how irksome it is to copy. If you will get any 
trusty person in Dumfries to write them over 
fair, I will give Peter Hill whatever money he 
asks for his trouble ; and I certainly shall not 
betray your confidence. 

I am your hearty admirer, 

ANDREW ERSKINE. 



No. XII. 
THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

26<A January, 1793. 

I APPROVE greatly, my dear Sir, of your plans. 
Dr. Beattie's Essay will of itself be a treasure. 
On my part, I mean to draw up an appendix to 
the Doctor's Essay, containing my stock of an- 
ecdotes, &c. of our Scots songs. All the late 
Mr. Tytler's anecdotes I have by me, taken 
down in the course of my acquaintance with 
him from his own mouth. I ani such an en- 
thusiast, that in the course of my several pere- 
grinations through Scotland, I made a pilgri- 
mage to the individual spot from which every 
song took its rise, " Lochaber," and the " Braes 
of Ballenden," excepted. So far as the locality, 
either from the title of the air, or the tenor of 
the song, could be ascertained, I have paid mjr 
devotions at the particular shrine of everr 
Scotch muse. 

I do not doubt but you might make a very 
valuable collection of Jacobite wogs^-'but would 



COftRESPONDENCE. 



397 



It give no offence ? In the mean time, do not 
you thiok that some of them, particularly " The 
Sow*! tail to Geordie," as an uir, with other 
words, might be well worth a place in your 
collection of lively songs ? 

If it were possible to procure songs of merit, 
it would be proper to have one set of Scots 
words to every air, and that the set of words to 
which the notes ought to be set. There is a 
naivete, a pastoral simplicity, in a slight inter- 
mixture of Scots words and phraseology, which 
it more in unison (at least to my taste, and I 
will add, to every genuine Caledonian taste), 
with the simple pathos, or rustic sprightliness of 
our native music, than any English verses what- 
ever. 

The very name of Peter Pindar, is an acqui- 
sition to your work. His " Gregory" is beau- 
tiful. I have tried to give you a set of stanzas 
in Scots, on the same subject, which are at your 
service. Not that I intend to enter the lists 
with Peter ; that would be presumption indeed. 
My song, though much inferior in poL-tic merit, 
has I think more of the ballad simplicity in it. 



(Lord Gregory* p. 209.) 

My most respectful compliments to the ho- 
nourable gentleman who favoured me with a 
postscript in'yotir last. He shall hear from me 
and receive his MSS. soon. 



No. xin. 

THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

(Mary Morison, p. 211.) 

ItT DKAR SIR, 20th March, 1793. 

Thk song prefixed is one of my juvenile 
works. I leave it in your hands. I do not 



• The rang of Dr. Walcott on the tame iutject is u 
foUowt : — 

Ab ope. Lord Gregory, thy door, 

A midnight wanderer sigh] ; 
Hard rush the rains the tempests roar. 

And lightnings cleave the slues. 

Who eomes with woe at this drear night — 

A pilgrim of the gloom ? 
If she whose love did once delight. 

My cot shall yield her room. 

Alu ! thou heard'st a pilgrim mourn. 

That once was priz'a by thee : 
Think of the ring by yonder bum 

Thou gav'tt to love and me. 

But thould'f t thou not poor Marian know, 

I'll turn my feet and part ; 
And think the ttormi that round mt blow, 

Far kinder than thy heart. 

It is but doing Justice to Dr. Walcott to tnentioo, 
ttkat his song it the original. Mr. Burns taw it, liked 
H, and immediately wrote the other on the tame iut>- 
jMt, which it derived from an old Scoltith ballad of 
HBcWtaia origin. 



think it very remarkable, either for its merits, 
01- demerits. It is impossible (at least I feel it 
so in my stinted powers), to be always original, 
entertaining, and witty. 

■".Vhnt is become of the list, &c. of your song* ? 
I shall be out of all temper with you by and by. 
I have always looked on myself as the prince of 
indolent correspondents, and valued myself ac- 
cordingly ; and I will not, cannot bear rivalship 
from you, nor any body else. 



No. XIV. 

THE SAME TO THE SAME. 

( Wandering WiUie, p. 240. ) 

March, 1793. 
I leave it to you, my dear Sir, to determine 
whether the above, or the old " Through the 
Ian? Muir," be the best. 



No. XV. 

THE SAME TO THE SAME. 

I ( Open the Door to Me, O, p. 219.) 

I do not know whether this song be realljr 
mended. 



No. XVL 
THE SAME TO THE SAME. 
( True-hearted wot he, p. 240.) 



No. XVII. 
MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 

Edinhiiryh, id April, 179S. 

I WILL not recognise the title you give your- 
self, " the prince of indolent correspondents ;" 
but if the adjective were taken away, I think 
the title would then fit you exactly. It gives 
me pleasure to find you can furnish anecdotes 
with respect to most of the songs : these will 
be a literary curiosity. 

I now send you my list of the songs, which 
I believe will be f.iund nearly complete. I have 
put down the first lines of all the English songs, 
which I propose giving in addition to the Sc«t«h 
verses. If any others occur to you, better adapt* 
cd to the character of the airs, praj neatiea 



S9S 



BURNS* WORKS. 



tbem, wben you favoui^ tAt with your strictures 
upon every thing else relating to the work. 

Pleyel has lately sent me a number of the 
■ongs, with his symphonies and accompaniments 
added to them. I wish you were here, that I 
might serve up some of them to you with your 
own verses, by way of dessert after dinner. There 
i» »o much delightful fancy in the symphonies, 
and such a delicate simplicity in the accom- 
paniments : they are indeed beyond all praise. 

I am very much pleased with the several last 
productions of your muse : your Lord Gregory, 
in my estimation, is more interesting than 
Peter's, beautiful as his is ! Your Here Awa 
Willie must undergo some alterations to suit 
ihe air. Mr. Erskine and I have been conning 
it over : he will suggest what is necessary to 
make them a fit match. * 

The gentleman I have mentioned, whose fine 
taste you are no stranger to, is so well pleased 
both with the musical and poetical part of our 
work, that he has volunteered his assistance, 
and has already written four songs for it, which, 
by his own desire, I send for your perusal. 



No. XVIII. 1 

THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

{The Soldier's Return, p. 2S5.) 
{Mey oUhe MIL p. 211.) 



No. XIX. 

THL POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

7th April, 1793. 
TuAMK you, my dear Sir, for your packet, 
You cannot imagine how much this business of 
eomposing for your publication has added to my 
tnjoyments. What with my early attachment 
to ballads, your book, &c. ballad-making is now 
at completely my hobby-horse, as ever fortifica- 
tion was Uncle Tobv's; so I'll e'en canter it 
away till I come to the limit of my race, (God 
grant that I may take the right side of the win- 
ning-post !) and then cheerfully looking back 
on the honest folks with whom I have been hap- 

£y, I shall say, or sing, " Sae merry as we a' 
ae been !" and raising ray last looks to the whole 
human race, the last words of the voice of Coi- 
la shall be " Good night and joy be wl' you 
a* !" So much for my last words : now for a 
ftw present remarks, as they have occurred at 
random, on looking over your list. 

The first lines of The last time 1 came o'er 



• The gentleman alluded to was Mr. Andrew Ers- 
kint. The poet adopted part of the alterations, and 
pjwted Ut« rest. 



the moor, and several other lines in It, are beatf- 
tiful : but in my opinion — pardon me, revered 
shade of Ramsay ! the song is unworthy of the 
divine air. I shall try to make, or mend. For 
ever, Fortune wilt thou prove, is a charming 
song ; but Logan burn and Logan braes, are 
sweetly susceptible of rural imagery : I'll try 
that likewise, and if I succeed, the other song 
may class among the English ones. I remem- 
ber the two last last lines of a verse in some of 
the old songs of Logan water, (for I know a 
good many diffeient ones) which I think pretty : 

" Now my dear lad maun face his faes. 
Far, far frae me and Logan braes. " 

Mg Patie is a lover gag, is unequal. " His 
mind is never muddy," is a muddy expresnoB 
indeed. 

" Then I'll resign and marry Pate, 
And syne my cockernony." 

This is surely far unworthy of Ramsay, Or 
your book. My song, Higs of barley, to the 
same tune, does not altogether please me ; but if 
I can mend it, and thrash a few loose sentiments 
out of it, I will submit it to your consideration. 
The lass o' Patie s mill is one of Ramsay'a 
best songs ; but there is one loose sentiment in 
it, which my much-valued friend, Mr. Erekine, 
will take into his critical consideration. In Sir 
J. Sinclair's Statistical volumes are two claims, 
one, I think, from Aberdeenshire, and the other 
from Ayrshire, for the honour of this song. 
The following anecdote, which I had from the 
present Sir William Cunningham, of Robert- 
land, who had it of the late John Earl of Lou- 
don, I can on such authorities believe. 

Allan Ramsay was residing at Loudon Castle 
with the then Earl, father to Earl John ; and 
one forenoon, riding, or walking out together, 
his Lordship and Allan passed a sweet roman- 
tic spot on Irvine water, still called *' Patie's 
Mill," where a bonnie lass was " tedding hay, 
bareheaded on the green." My Lord observed 
to Allan, that it would be a fine theme for a 
song. Ramsay took the hint, and lingering be- 
hind, he composed the first sketch of it, which 
he produced at dinner. 

One day I heard Mary say. Is a fine song; 
but for consistency's sake alter the name " Ado- 
nis." Was there ever such banns published, as 
a purpose of marriage between Adonis and Ma- 
ry? \ agree with you that my song. There'* 
nought but care on every hand, is much superi- 
or to Poortith cauld. The original song, The 
mill, mill O, though excellent, is, on account of 
delicacy, inadmissible ; still I like the title, and 
think a Scottish song would suit the notes best ; 
and let your chosen song, which is very pretty, 
follow, as an English set. The banks of the 
Dee is, you know, literally Langolee to alow 
time, 'f he song is well enough, but has iom« 
false imagery in it : for instance, 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



S9d 



* An^ iweetly tke mghtlngale sung from the 
, tree." 

In the first pkce, the nightingale sings in a 
low bush, but never from a tree ; and ia the 
lecond place, there never was a nightingale seen 
or heard on the banks of the Dee, or on the 
banks of any other river in Scotland. Exotic 
rural imagery is always comparatively fiat. If 
I could hit on another stanza equal to The small 
birds rejoice, &c. I do myself honestly avow 
that I think it a superior song. John Ander- 
son my jo — the song to this tune in Johnson's 
Museum, is my composition, and I think it not 
my worst : If it suit you, take it and welcome. 
Your collection of sentimental and pathetic 
longs, is, in my opinion, very complete ; but not 
BO your comic ones. Where are Tullochgorum, 
JiUmps o' puddin, Tibbie Fowler, and several 
Others, which, in my humble judgment, are well 
■worthy of preservation ? There is also one sen- 
timental song of mine in the Museum, which 
never was known out of the immediate neigh- 
bourhood, until I got it taken down from a 
country girl's singing. It is called Craigiehurn 
wood; and in the opinion of Mr. Clarke, is 
one of our sweetest Scottish songs. He is quite 
an enthusiast about it ; and I would take his 
taste in Scottish music against the t^ste of most 
connoisseurs. 

You are quite right in inserting the last five 
in your list, though they are certainly Irish. 
Shepherds J have lost my love, is to nie a hea- 
venly air — what would you think of a set of 
Scottish verses to it ? I have made one to it a 

good while ago, which I think 

.... but in its original state is not quite a 
lady's song. I enclose an altered, not amend- 
ed copy for you, if you choose to set the tune to 
it, and let the Irish verses follow. 

Mr. Erskine'a songs are all pretty, but his 
Lone vale is divine. Yours, &c. 

Let me know just how you like these random 
huts. 



No. XX. 
MR, THOMSON TO THE POET. "' 

Edinburgh, April, 1793. 

I kKJOlCX to find, my dear Sir, that ballad- 
making continues to be your hobby- horse. 
Great pity 'twould be were it otherwise. I 
hope you will amble it away for many a year, 
and " witch the world with your horseman- 
ship." 

I know there are a good many lively songs 
of merit that I have not put down in the list 
■ent you ; but I have them all in my eye. My 
fatie M a lover gay, though a little unequal, is 
^^^satural and very pleasing song, and I humbly 



think we ought not to ditpUee or altar it, ex- 
cept the last stanza.* 



No. XXI. 
THE POET TO MR- THOMSON. 

April, 1793. 

I HAVE yours, my dear Sir, this moment. 1 
shall answer it and your former letter, in my 
desultory way of saying whatever comes upper- 
most. 

The business of many of our tunes wanting 
at the beginning what fiddlers call a starting- 
note, is often a rub to us poor rhymers. 

" There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes, 
That wander thro' the blooming heather," 

You may alter to 

" Braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes, 
Ye wander," S:e. 

Jly song. Here area, there awa, as amended 
by I\Ir. Erbkine, 1 entirely approve of, and re- 
turn you. 

Give me leave to criticise your taste in the 
only thing in which it is in my opinion repre- 
hensible. You know I ought to know some- 
tliing of my own trade. Of pathos, sentiment, 
and point, you arc a complete judge ; but there 
is a quality more necessary than either, in a 
song, and which is the very essence of a ballad, 
I mean simplicity : now, if I mistake not, this 
last feature you are a little apt to sacrifice to 
the foregoing. 

Ramsay, as every other poet, has not been 
always equally happy in his pieces : still I can- 
not approve of taking such liberties with an 
author as Mr. W. proposes doing with TTie last 
time 1 came o'er the Moor. Let a poet, if he 
chooses, take up the idea of another, and work 
it into a piece of his own ; but to mangle the 
works of tlie poor bard, whose tuneful tongue 
ii now mute for ever, in the dark and nan-ow 
house — by Heaven 'twould be sacrilege ! I 
grant that Mr. Ws version is an improvement ; 
but I know Mr. W. well, and esteem him much ; 
let him meud the song, as the Highlander 
mended his gun : — he gave it a new stock, and 
a new lock, and a new barrel. 

I do not, by this, object to leaving out im- 
proper stanzas, where that can be done without 
spoiling the whole. One stanza in The last 
o' Patie's mill, must be left out: the song will 
be nothing worse for it. I am not sure if we 



• The oriRinal letter from Mr. Thomson contains 
many observations on the Scottish songs, and on the 
manner of adapting the words to the music, which, at 
his desire, arc suppressed. The subsequent letter ot 
Mr. Bums refers to several of these observaiionv 



400 



BUftNS* WORKS. 



can take tlie tame liberty with Corn rigs are 
boiutit. Perhaps it might want the last stanza, 
and be the better for it. Cauld kail in Aher- 
deen, you must leave with me yet a while, I 
have vowed to have a song to that air, on the 
lady whom I attempted to celebrate in the 
verses, Poortith cauld and restless love. At 
any rate, my other sons;. Green grow the rash- 
tt, will never suit. That song is cunent in 
Scotland under the old title, and to the merry 
old tune of that name ; which of course would 
mar the progress of your song to celebrity. 
Your book will' be the standard of Scots songs 
for the future : let this .idea ever keep your 
judgment on the alarm. 

I send a song, on a celebrated toast in this 
country, to suit Bonnie Dundee. I send you 
also a ballad to the Mill, mill O. 

The last time I came o'er the moor, I would 
fain attempt to make a Scots song for, and let 
Ramsay's be the English set. You shall hear 
from me soon. When you go to London on 
this business, can you come by Dumfries ? I 
have still several MS. Scots airs by me which 
I have picked up, mostly from the singing of 
country lasses. They please me vastly ; but 
vour learned lugs would perhaps be displeased 
with the very feature for which I like them. 
I call them simple ; you would pronounce them 
silly. Do you know a fine air called Jackie 
Hume's lament ? I have a song of consider- 
able merit to that air. I'll enclose you both the 
song and tune, as I had them ready to send to 
Johnson's Museum. I send you likewise, to 
me, a beautiful little air, which I had taken 
dowB from viva voce. 

Adieu ! 



No. xxm. 



No. XXII. 

THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

«T DEAR SIR, April, 1793. 

I HAD scarcely put my last letter into the 
post-ofHce, when I took up the subject of The 
last time I came o'er the moor, and ere I slept 
drew the outlines of the foregoing. How far I 
have succeeded, I leave on this, as on every 
other occasion, to you to decide. I own my 
vanity is flattered, when you give my songs a 
place in your elegant and superb work ; but to 
be of service to the work is my first wish. As 
I have often told you, I do not in a single in- 
stance wish you, out of compliment to me, to 
insert any thing of mine. One hint let me give 
you whatever Mr. Pleyel does, let him not al- 
ter one iota of the original Scottish airs ; 1 mean, 
in the song department ; but let our national 
music preserve its native features. They are, 
I own, frequently wild and irreducible to the 
more modern rules ; but on that very eccentri- 
city, perhaps, depends a great part of their ef 



MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 

Edinburgh, 26th April, 1793. 
I HEARTiLT thank you, my dear Sir, for youp 
last two letters, and the songs which accompa- 
nied them. I am always both instructed and 
entertained by your observations ; and the frank- 
ness with which you speak out your mind, is to 
me highly agreeable. It is very possible I may 
not have the true idea of simplicity in composi- 
tion. 1 confess there are several songs of Allan 
Ramsay's, for example, that I think silly enough, 
which another person, more conversant than I 
have been with country people, would perhaps 
call simple and natural. But the lowest scenes 
of simple nature will not please generally, if co- 
pied precisely as they are. The poet, like the 
painter, must select what will form an agreeable 
as well as a natural picture. On this subject it 
were easy to enlarge ; but at present suffice it 
to say, that I consider simplicity, rightly under- 
stood, as a most essential quality in composition, 
and the ground-work of beauty in all the arts. 
I will gladly appropriate your most interesting 
new ballad, When wild war's deadly blast, &c. 
to the 3Iill, mill, O, as well as the two other 
songs to their respective airs ; but the third and 
fourth line of the first verse must undergo some 
little alteration in order to suit the music. Pleyel 
does not alter a single note of the songs. That 
would be absurd indeed ! With the airs which 
he introduces into the sonatas, I allow him to 
take such liberties as he pleases ; but that has 
nothing to do with the songs. 



P. S. — I wish you would do as you propoaed 
with your Rigs o' barley. If the loose senti- 
ments are thrashed out of it, I will find an air 
for it ; but as to this there is no hurry. 



No. XXIV. 
THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

June, 179S. 

When I tell you, my dear Sir, that a friend 
of mine, in whom I am much interested, has 
fallen a sacrifice to these accursed times, you 
will easily allow that it might unhinge me for 
doing any good among ballads. My own loss, 
as to pecuniary matters, is trifling ; but the to- 
tal ruin uf a much-loVed friend, is a loss indeed. 
Pardon my seeming inattention to your last 
commands. 

I cannot alter the disputed lines in the MiB, 
mill, O. What you think a defect I esteem at 
a positive beauty : so you see how doctoi-s dif- 
fer. I shall DOW, with as much alacrity ai I 
can muster, go on with your command*. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



401 



You know Fraser, the hautboy player in 
Edinburgh — he is here instructing a band of 
music for a fencible corps quartered in this 
country. Among many of his airs that please 
me, there is one well known as a reel by the 
name of The Quaker's Wife ; and which I re- 
member a grand aunt of mine used to sing, by 
the name of Ziiggeram cosh, my bonny luee lass. 
Mr. Fraser plays it slow, atid with an espres- 
•ion that quite charms me. I became such an 
enthusiast about it, that I made a song for it, 
which I here subjoin ; and enclose Eraser's set 
of the tune. If they hit your fancy, they are 
at your service ; if not, return me the tune, 
and I will put it in Johnson's Museum. I 
think the song is not in my worst manner. 

(^Bit/the hae I been on yon Hill, p. 193.) 

I should wish to hear how this pleases you. 



No. XXV. 



This thought is inexpressibly beautiful ; and 
quite, so far as I know, originaL It ia too 
short for a song, else I would forswear you al- 
together, unless you gave it a place. I have 
often tried to eke a stanza to it, but in vain. 
After balancing myself for a musing five mi- 
nutes on the hind-legs of my elbow chur, I 
produced the following. 

The verses are far inferior to the foregoing, 
I frankly confess ; but if worthy of insertion at 
all, they might be first in place ; as every poet, 
who knows any thing of his trade, will husband 
his best thoughts fur a concluding stroke. 

O were my love yon lilac fair, 

Wi' purple blossoms to the spring ; 

And I a bird to shelter there. 

When wearied on my little wing : 

How I wad mourn, when it was torn 
By autumn wild, and winter rude ! 

But I wad sing on wanton wing, 

When youthfu' May its bloom renew'd. 



THE SAME TO THE SAME. 

25th June, 1793. 
HLave you ever, my dear Sir, felt your bo- 
som ready to burst with indignation on reading 
of those mighty villains who divide kingdom 
against kingdom, desolate provinces, and lay na- 
tions waste out of the wantonness of ambition, 
or often from still more ignoble passions ? In a 
mood of this kind to-day, I recollected the air 
of Logan water ; and it occurred to me that 
its querulous melody probably had its origin 
from the plaintive indignation of some swelling, 
suffering heart, fired at the tyrannic strides of 
some public destroyer ; and overwhelmed with 
private distress, the consequence of a country's 
ruin. If I have done any thing at all like jus- 
tice to my feelings, the following song, com- 
posed in three quarters of an hour's meditation 
ia my elbow chair, ought to have some merit. 

{Logan Braes, p. 209. ) 

Do you know the following beautiful little 
fragment in Witherspoon's Collection of Scots 
Songs? 

Tunc^" Hughie Graham." 

" O gin my love were yon red rose 
" That grows upon the castle wa'i 

'* And I mysel' a drap o' duw, 
" Into her bonnie breast to fa' ! 



" Oh, there beyond expression blest, 
" I'll feast on beauty a' the night ; 

*• Seal'd on her sllk-saft faulds to rest, 
" Till fley'd awa by Plitebus' lighu" 



No. XXVL 
MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 

Monday, \st July, 1793. 

I AM extremely sorry, my good Sir, that any 
thing should happen to unhinge you. The times 
are terribly out of tune, and when harmony will 
be restored, heaven knows. 

The first book of songs, just published, will 
be despatched to you along with thif. Let me 
be favoured with your opinion of it frankly and 
freely. 

I shall certainly give a place to the song you 
have written for the Quaker's wife ; it is quite 
enchanting. Pray, will you return the list of 
songs, with such airs added to it as you think 
ought to be included. The business now rests 
entirely on myself, the gentleman who original- 
ly agreed to join the speculation having re- 
quested to be off. No matter ; a loser I cannot 
be. The superior excellence of the work will 
create a general demand for it, as soon as it is 
properly known. And were the sale even slowe 
than it promises to be, I should be wme- 
what compensated for my labour, by the plea- 
sure I shall receive fiom the music. I cannot 
express how much I am obliged to ^■ou for the 
exquisite new sougs you are fending me; but 
thanks, my friend, are a poor return for what 
you have done : as I shall be benefited by the 
publication, you must suffer me to enclose a 
small mark of my gratitude*, and to repeat it 
afterwards when I find it convenient. Do not 
return it, for, by heaven, if you do, our corres- 
pondence is at an end : and though this would 
be no loss to you, it would mar the publicationi 



• LA 

71 



402 



BURNS' WORKS. 



wluch, undef your tuipices, ctnaot fall to be 
■pccUble imd intercating. 



Wednesday Morning. 
I tnank you for your delicate additiooal ver- 
•M to the old fragment, and for your excellent 
•ong to Logan water : Thomson'a truly elegant 
one will follow for the Engliih singer. Your 
apostrophe to statesmen is admirable, but I am 
Bot sure if it is quite suitable to the supposed 
gentle character of the fair mourner who speaks 
it 



No. XXVII. 

THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

jrr DEAR SIR, July 2, 1793. 

I HAVE just finished the following ballad, and 
as I do think it in my best style, I send it you. 
Mr. Clarke, who wrote down the air from Mrs. 
fiurns' wood-note wild, is very fond of it ; and 
has given it a celebrity by teaching it to some 
young ladies of the first fashion here. If y 
do not like the air enough to give it a place in 
your collection, please return it. The song you 
may keep, as I remember it. 



{Bonnit Jean, p. IQi.) 

I have some thoughts of inserting in your in- 
dex, or in my notes, the names of the fair ones, 
the themes of my songs. I do not mean the 
name at full ; but dashes or asterisms, so as in- 
genuity may find them out. 

The heroine of the foregoing is Miss M. 
daughter to Mr. M. of D., one of your subscri- 
bers. I have not painted her in the rank which 
•he holds in life, but in the dress and character 
of a cottager. 



No. XXVIII. 

THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

July, 1 793. 
I ASiUKt you, my dear Sir, that you truly 
hurt me with your pecuniary parcel. It de- 
grades me in my own eyes. However, to return 
It would savour of affectation ; but as to any 
more traific of that debtor and creditor kind, I 
■wear by that Honour which crowns the up- 
right statue of Robert Burns' Integrity 

on the least motion of it, I will indignantly spurn 
the by-past transaction, and from that moment 
pommence entire stranger to you ! Burns' cha- 
r«cter ftr generosity pf sentiment and indepen- 



dence of mind will, t trust, loa^ out!!v« tAy tl 
his wanU, which the cold unfeeling ore eta 
supply : at least, I will take care that such ■ 
character he shall deserve. 

Thank you for my copy of your publication. 
Never did my eyes behold, in any musical work, 
such elegance and correctness. Your preface, 
too, is admirably written ; only, your partiality 
to me has made you say too much ; however, it 
will bind me down to double every effort in the 
future progress of the work. The following are 
a few remarks on the songs in the list you sent 
me. I never copy what I write to you, bo I 
may be often tautological, or perhaps contradic- 
tory. 

The flowers of the forest is charming as a 
poem ; and should be, and must be, set to the 
notes ; but, though out of your rule, the three 
stanzas, beginning, 

" I hae seen the smiling o' fortune b^uiliog," 

are worthy of a place, were it but to immorta- 
lize the author of them, who is an old lady of 
my acquaintance, and at this moment living in 
Edinburgh. She is a Mrs. Cockbum ; I for- 
get of wliat place; but from Roxburghshire. 
What a charming apostrophe is 

" O fickle fortune, why this cruel sporting. 
Why, why torment us — ^poor sons of a day I" 

The old ballad, / wish I were where Helen lies, 
is silly, to contemptfbility*. My alteration of it, 
in Johnson's, is not much better. Mr. Pinker- 
ton, in his, what he calls. Ancient Ballads 
(many of them notorious, though beautiful 
enough forgeries) has the best set. It is full of 
his own interpolations — but no matter. 

In my next, I will suggest to your considera- 
tion, a few songs which may have escaped your 
hurried notice. In the meantime, allow me to 
congratulate you now, as a brother of the quilL 
You have committed your character and fame; 
which will now be tried, for ages to «ome, bf 
the illustrious jury of the Sons and Daughters 
of Taste — all whom poety can please, or music 
charm. 

Being a bard of nature, I have some preten- 
sions to second sight ; and I am warranted by 
the spirit to foretel and affirm, that your great, 
grandchild will hold up your volumes, and «ar, 
with honest pride, " This so much admired se- 
lection was the work of my ancestor." 



• There is a copy of this ballad ^iven in the account 
of the parish of Kirkpatrick-KleminR, (which contalni 
the tomb of Fair Helen Irvine,) in the statistics of Sir 
John Sinclair, Vol. XII I. p. 275, to which thij charao. 
tet is certainly not applicable. 



CORRESPOl^DfiNCE. 



408 



No. XXIX. 



lilR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 

SiAR stR, Edinburgh, 1st August, 1793. 

I HAD the pleasure of receiving your last two 
letter*, and am happy to find you are quite 
pleased with the appearance of the first book. 
"When you come to hear the songs sung and ac- 
companied, you will be charmed with them. 

The bonnie bracket Lassie, certainly deserves 
better verses, and I hope you will match her. 
Cauld kail in Aberdeen, Let me in this ae night, 
and several of the livelier airs, wait the muse's 
leisure : these are peculiarly worthy ef her 
choice gifts : besides, you'll notice that in airs 
of this sort, the singer can always do greater 
justice to the poet, than in the slower airs of 
The Sush aboon Traquair, Lord Gregory, 
and the like ; for in the manner the latter are 
frequently sung, you must be contented with 
the sound, without the sense. Indeed both 
the airs and words are disguised by the very 
slow, languid, psalm-singing style in which 
they are too often performed : they lose anima- 
> tioa and expression altogether, and instead of 
ipeaking to the miud, or touching the heart, 
they cloy upon the ear, and set us a yawn- 
ing! 

Your ballad, There was a lass and she was 
fair, is simple and beautiful, and shall undoubt- 
edly grace my collection. 



No, XXX. 

THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

aiT BEAR THOMSoy, August, 1793. 

I HOLD the pen for our friend Clarke, who 
at present is studying the music of the spheres 
at my elbow. The Georgium Sidus he thinks 
is rather out of tune ; so until he rectify that 
Sutter, he cannot stoop to terrestrial afifairs. 

He sends you six of the Rondeau subjects, 
And if more are wanted, he says you shall have 
brau 



I will. The oth«r pas«^« ym objcet to iota 
bot appear in the same light to me. 

I have tried my hand on Robin Adair, atid 
you will probably think, with little success; 
but it is such a cursed, cramp, out of the vrvf 
measure, that I despair of doing any thing bat- 
ter to it. 



(PhiHis the fair, p. 222.) 

So much for namby-pamby. I may, after 
all, try my hand on it in Scots verse. There I 
always find myself most at home. 

I have just put the last hand to the song I 
meant for Cauld Kail in Aberdeen. If it suits 
you to insert it, I shall be pleased, as the hero- 
ine is a favourite of mine : if not, I shall also 
be pleased ; because I wish, and will be glad, 
to see you act decidedly on the business. 'Tii 
a tribute as a man of taste, and as an editor, 
which you owe yourself. 



Coafband your long stairs ! 

S. CLARKE, 



No. XXXI. 

THE SAME TO THE SAME. 

August, 1793. 

Your objection, my dear sir, to the passages 

in my song of Logan Water, is right in one in- 

ttoBcc ; but it is difficult to mend it : If I can, 



No, xxxn. 

MR, THOMSON TO THE POET. 

MY GOOD SIR, August, 1793. 

I CONSIDER it one of the most agreeable cir- 
cumstances attending this publication of mine, 
that it has procured me so many of your much 
valued epistles. Pray make my acknowledg- 
ments to St. Stephen for the tunes ; tell him I 
admit the justness of his complaint on my stair- 
case, conveyed in his laconic postscript to your 
jeu d'esprit ; which I perused more than once, 
without discovering exactly whether your discus- 
sion was music, astronomy, or politics ; though 
a sagacious friend, acquainted with the convivial 
habits of the poet and the musician, offered me 
a bet of two to one, you were just drowning 
care together ; that an empty bowl was the 
only thing that would deeply affect you, and the 
only matter you could then study how to re- 
medy ! 

I shall be glad to see you give Robin Adair 
a Scottish dress. Peter is furnishing him with 
an English suit for a change, and you are wsll 
matched together. Robin's air is excellent, 
though he certainly has an out of the way mea- 
sure as ever poor Parnassian wight was plagued 
with. I wish you would invoke the muse for a 
single elegant stanza to be substituted for the 
concluding objectionable verses of Down the 
burn Davie, so that this most exquisite song 
may no longer be excluded from good company. 

Mr. Allan has made an inimitable drawing 
from your John Anderson my Jo, which I am 
to have engraved, as a frontispiece to the hu- 
morous class of songs ; you will be quite charm- 
ed with it, I promise you. The old couple are 
seated by the fireside. Mrs. Anderson, in great 



404 



BURNS* WORKS. 



good humour, is clapping John's shoulders, 
while he smiles and looks at her with such glee, 
u to show that he fully recollects the pleasant 
days and nights when they were first acquent. 
The drawing would do honour to the pencil of 
Teniers. 



No. xxxm. 

THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

August, \19S. 
TsAT crinkum-crankum tune, Robin Adair, 
i.as run so in my head, and I succeeded so ill 
in my last attempt, that I have ventured, in this 
morning's walk, one essay more. You, my 
dear Sir, will remember an unfortunate part of 
our worthy friend C. 's story, which happened 
about three years ago. That struck my fancy, 
and I endeavoured to do the idea justice, as 
follows. 



(Szd J a cave, p. 203.) 

By the way, I have met with a musical High- 
lander, in Breadalbane's fencibles, which are 
quartered here, who assures me that he well 
remembers his mother's singing Gaelic songs to 
both Robin Adair and Gramachree. They 
certainly have more of the Scotch than Irish 
taste in them. 

This man comes from the vicinity of Inver- 
ness ; so it could not be any intercourse with 
Ireland that could bring them ; — except, what 
I shrewdly suspect to be the case, the wander- 
ing minstrels, harpers, and pipere, used to go 
frequently errant through the wilds both of 
Scotland and Ireland, and so some favourite airs 
might be common to both. — A case in point — 
They have lately, in Ireland, published an Irish 
air, as they say, called Caun du delish. The 
fact is, in a publication of Corri's, a great while 
ago, you will find the same air, called a High- 
land one, with a Gaelic song set to it. Its 
name there, I think, is Oran Gaoil, and a 
fine air it is. Do ask honest Allan, or the Rev. 
Gaelic parson, about these matters. 



No. XXXIV. 
THE SAME TO THE SAME. 

icr SKAR SIR, . August, 1793. 

Xet m« in this ae night, I will reconsider. 
I am glad you are pleased with my song, Had 
J a cave, &c. as I liked it myself. 

I walked out yesterday evening with a vo- 
Jnme of the Museum in my hand ; when, turn- 
ing up AUan Water, •• What numbers shall 



the muse repeat," &c. as the words appeared to 
me rather unworthy of so fine an air ; and re- 
collecting that it is on your list, I sat and raved 
under the shade of an old thorn, till I wrote 
out one to suit the measure. I may be wrong > 
but I think it not in my worst style. You 
must know, that in Ramsay's Tea-table, where 
the modern song first appeared, the ancient 
name of the tune, Allan says, is AUan Water, 
or, Mi/ love Annie's v*ry bonnie. This 
last has certainly been a line of the origina. 
song ; so I took up the idea, and, as you will 
see, have introduced the line in its place, which 
I presume it formerly occupied ; though I like- 
wise give you a choosing line, if it should not 
hit the cut of your fancy. 

(^By AUan streams I chanced to rove. 

While Phoebus sank beyond Benleddi, p. 190.) 

Bravo ! say I ; it is a good song. Should 
you think so too, (not else) you can set the 
music to it, and let the other follow as Englisii 
verses. 

Autumn is my propitious season. I make 
more verses in it than in all the year else. 
God bless you ! 



No. XXXV. 

THE SAME TO THE SAJEE. 

August, 1793. 
Is Whistle and Til come to you, my lad, 
one of your airs ? I admire it much ; and yes- 
terday 1 set the following verses to it. Urbani, 
whom I met with here, begged them of me, as 
he admires the air much ; but as I understand 
that he looks with rather an evil eye on your 
work, I did not choose to comply. However, 
if the song does not suit your taste, I may pos- 
sibly send it him. The set of the air which 
I bad in my eye, is in Johnson's Museum. 



( O whistle and Til come to you, my lad, 
p. 242.) 

Another favourite air of mine is, The muckin 
o' Geordie's byre. When sung slow, with ex- 
pression, I have wished that it had had better 
poetry : that I have endeavoured to supply, as 
follows : — 

{PhiUis the Fair, p. 222.) 

Mr. Clarke begs you to give Miss Phillis a 
corner in your book, as she is a particular flame 
of his. She is a Miss P. M., sister to bonnie 
Jean, They are both pupils of his. You shall 
hear from me, the very first grist I get from 
my rhyming mill, 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



405 



No. XXXVI. 
THE SAME TO THE SAME. 

August, 1793. 
That tune, Cauld Kail, is such a favourite 
of yours, that I once more roved out yesterday 
for a gloamin-shot at the muses ; * when the 
muse that presides o'er the shores of Nith, or 
rather my old inspiring dearest nymph Coila, 
whispered me the following. I Lave two rea- 
•ons for thinking that it was iny curly, sweet, 
simple inspirer that was by my elbow, " smooth 
gliding without step," and pouring the song on 
my glowing fancy. In the first place, since 1 
left Coila's native haunts, not a fragment of a 
poet has arisen to cheer her solitary musings, by 
catching inspiration from her ; so I more than 
suspect that she has followed me hither, or at 
least makes me occasional visits ; secondly, the 
last stanza of this song I send you in the very 
words that Coila taught me many years ago, 
and which I set to an old Scots reel in John- 
son's Museum. 

( Come let me take thee to my breast, p. 197.) 

If you think the above will suit your idea of 
your favourite air, I shall be highly pleased. 
The last time I came o'er the Moor, I cannot 
meddle with,- as to mending it : and the musi- 
cal world have been so long accustomed to Ram- 
say's words, that a different song, though posi- 
tively superior, would not be so well received. 
I am not fond of choruses to songs, so I have 
BOt made one for the foregoing. 



No. XXXVII. 



THE SAME TO THE SAME. 
{Daintij Davie, p. 198.) 

August, 1793. 

So much for Davie. The chorus, you know, 
is to the low part of the tune. See Clarke's 
set of it in the Museum. 

N. B. In the Museum they have drawled out 
the tune to twelve lines of poetry, which is 
' nonsense. Four lines of song, and four 

of chorus, is the way. 



• Gloamip.— twilight, properly from glooming. A 
beautiful poetical word which ought to be adopted in 
England. A gloamin-shot, a twilight interview. 



No. xxxvin. 

MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 

MY DEAR SIR, Edinburgh, \st Sept. I79S. 

Since writing you last, I have received half 
a dozen songs, with which I am delighted beyond 
expression. The humour and fancy of Whittle 
and I'll come to you, my lad, will render it 
nearly as great a favourite as Duncan Gray. 
Come let me take thee to my breast, A.down 
winding Nith, and Sy Allan stream, ifc. are 
full of imagination and feeling, and sweetly suit 
the airs for which they are intended. Had I 
a cave on some wild distant shore, is a strik- 
ing and affecting composition. Our friend, to 
whose story it refers, read it with a swelling 
heart, I assure you. The union we are now 
forming, I think, can never be bioken ; these 
songs of yours will descend with the music to 
the latest posterity, aud will be fondly cherished 
so lung as genius, taste, and sensibility exist in 
our island. 

While the muse seems so propitious, I think 
it right to cuclose a list of all the favours I havs 
to ask of her, no fewer than twenty and three ! 
I have burdened the pleasant Peter with as many 
as it is probable he will attend to : most of the 
remaining airs would puzzle the English poet 
not a little ; they are of that peculiar measure 
and rhythm, that they must be familiar to him 
who writes for them. 



No. XXXIX. 
THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

Sept. 1793. 

You may readily tiiist, my dear Sir, that any 
exertion in my power is heartily at your ser- 
vice. But one thing I must hint to you ; the 
very name of Peter Pindar is of great service 
to your publication, so get a verse from him 
DOW and then ; though I have no objection, as 
well as I can, to bear the burden of the busi- 
ness. 

You know that my pretensions to musical 
taste are merely a few of nature's instincts, un- 
taught and untutored by art. For this reason, 
many musical compositions, particularly where 
much of the merit lies in counterpoint ; how- 
ever they may transport and ravish the ears of 
you connisseurs, affect my simple lug no other- 
wise than merely as melodious din. On the 
other hand, by way of amends, I am delighted 
with many little melodies, which the learned 
musician despises as silly and insipid. I do not 
know whether the old air Hey tuttie taitie 
may rank among this number ; but well I know 
that, with Fraser's hautboy, it has often filled 
my eyes with tears. There is a tradition, which 
I have met with in many places of Scotland, 
that it was Robert Bnice's march at the battlo 



40S 



BURNS' WORKS. 



of Bannockburn. Tliis thought, ia my solitary 
wanderings, warmed me to a pitch of enthu- 
siatm on the theme of Liberty and Indepen- 
dence, which I threw into a kiud of Scottish 
ode, fitted to the air that one might suppose to 
be the gallant Royal Scot's address to his he- 
roic followers on that eventful morning. 



^ (Scots toha hae wV Wallace hied, p. 195.) 

So may God ever defend the cause of Truth 
and LibertV) as he did that day ! — Amen. 

P. S. — I showed the air to Urbani, who was 
highly pleased with it, and begged me to make 
«oft verses for it ; but I hud no idea of giving 
myself any trouble on the subject, till the acci- 
dental recollection of that glorious struggle for 
freedom, associated with the glowing ideas of 
some other struggles of the same nature, not 
quite so ancient, roused my rhyming mania. 
Clarke's set of the tune, with his bass, you will 
find in the Museum ; though I am afraid that 
the air is not what will entitle it to a place in 
your elegant selection. 



No. XL. 



THE SAME TO THE SAME, 

Sept. 1793. 

I DARE say, my dear Sir, that you will begin 
to think my correspondence is persecution. No 
matter, I can't help it ; a ballad is my hobby- 
horse ; which, though otherwise a simple sort 
of harmless, idiotical beast enough, has yet this 
blessed headstrong property, that when once it 
has fairly made off with a hapless wight, it gets 
60 enamoured with the tinkle-gingle, tinkle- 
gingle of its own bells, that it is sure to run 
poor pilgarlick, the bedlam jockey, quite be- 
yond any useful point or post in the common 
race of man. 

The following song I have composed for 
Oran-gaoil, the Highland air that, you tell me 
in your last, you have resolved to give a place 
to in your book. I have this moment finished 
the song ; so you have it glowing from the mint. 
If it suit you, well ! if not, 'tis also well ! 



iBiihcild tin hour the boat arrives, p. 193.) 

No. XLL 

1 MB. THOMSON TO THE POET. 

Edinburgh, 5th Sept. 1793. 
I axuiTX it is g«nentUy allowed that th« 



greatest modesty is the sure attendant of the 
greatest merit. While you are sending me verses 
that even Shakspeare might be proud to owa. 
you speak of them as if they were ordinary pro- 
ductions ! Your heroic ode is to me the noblest 
composition of the kind in the Scottish lan- 
guage. I happened to dine yesterday with a 
party of your friends, to whom I read it. They 
were all charmed with it, entreated me to find 
out a suitable air for it, and reprobated the idea 
of giving it a tune so totally devoid of interest 
or grandeur as Heif tuttie taitie. Assuredly 
your partiality for this tune must arise from the 
ideas associated in your mind by the traditiea 
concerning it, for I never heard any person,— 
and I have conversed again and again with the 
greatest enthusiasts for Scottish airs, — I say I 
never heard any one speak of it as worthy of 
notice. 

I have been running over the whole hundred 
airs, of which I lately sent you the list ; and I 
think Lewie Gordon is most happily adapted 
to your ode ; at least with a very slight varia- 
tion of the fourth line, which I shall presently 
submit to you. There is in Lewie Gordon. 
more of the grand than the plaintive, particu- 
larly when it is sung with a degree of spirit, 
which your words would oblige the singer to 
give it. I would have na scruple about substi- 
tuting your ode in the room of Lewie Gordon, 
which has neither the interest, the grandeur, 
nor the poetry that characterise your verses. 
Now, the variation I have to suggest upon the 
last line of each verse, the only line too short 
for the air, is as follows :— 

Verse \st. Or to glorious victorie. 

2d, Chains — chains and slavene. 

3d, Let him, let him turn and flie. 

4'th, Let him bravely follow me. 

bth, But they shall, they shall b« free. 

6th, Let us, let vs do, or die ! 

If you connect each line with its own verse, I 
do not think you will find that either the senti- 
ment or the expression loses any of its energy. 
The only line which I dislike in the whole of 
the song is, " Welcome to your gory bed.' 
Would not another word be preferable to totl" 
come ? In your next I will expect to be in- 
formed whether you agree to what I have pro- 
posed. These little alterations I submit with 
the greatest deference. 

The beauty of the verses you have made for 
Oran-gaoil will insure celebrity to the air. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



407 



Vo. XLU. 
THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

September, 1793. 

I HAVE received your list, my dear Sir, and 
hwe go my observations on it.* 

Down the 6ur7t Davie, I have this mo- 
ment tried an alteration, leaving out the last 
half of the third stanza, and the first lialf of the 
last stanza, thus : — 

As down the burn they took their way, 

And thro' the flowery dale ; 
His cheek to hers he aft did lay, 

And love was aye the tale. 

With " Mary, when shall we return, 

Sic pleasure to renew ?" 
Quoth Mary, " Love, I like the burn. 

And aye shall follow you." + 

Thro' the wood laddie — I am decidedly of 
opinion, that both in this, and There'll never he 
peace till Jamie comes hame, the second or high 
part of the tune being a repetition of the first 
part an octave higher, is only for instrumental 
music, and would be much better omitted in 
sbging. 

Cowden-ktwwes. Remember in your index 
that the song in pure English to this tune, be- 
ginning 

" When sammer comes, the swains on Tweed," 

i« the production of Crawford : Robert was his 
Christian name. 

Laddie lie near me, must lie by me for some 
time. I do not know the air ; and until I am 
complete roaster of a tune, in my own singing, 
(such as it is), I can never compose for it. 
My way is : I consider the poetic sentiment 
correspondent to my idea of the musical expres- 
sion ; then choose my theme ; begin one stan- 
ra ; when that is composed, which is generally 
the most difficult part of the business, I walk 
out, sit down, and then look out for objects in 
nature around me, that are in unison or har- 
mony with the cogitations of my fancy, and 
workings of my bosom ; humming every now 
and then the air, with the verses I have fra- 
med. When I feel my muse beginning to jade, 
I retire to the solitary fireside of my study, and 
there commit my eflFusions to paper ; swinging 
at intervals on the hind legs of ray elbow-chair, 
by way of calling forth my own critical stric- 
tures, as my pen goes on. Seriously, this, at 
home, is almost invariably my way. 

What cursed egotism I 



• Mr. Thomson's list of songs for his publication. 
In his remarks, the bard proceeds in order, and goes 
through the whole ; but on many of them he merely 
signifies his approbation. All his remarks of any im- 
portance a'e presented to the reader. 

t This alteration Mr. Thomson has adopted, (or at 
least intended to adopt), instead of the last stanza of 
the originai song, which h objectionable in point of 
delicacy. 



Gill Morice I am for leaving out. It ia * 
plaguey length ; the air itself is never sung ; 
and its place can well be supplied by one or two 
songs for fine airs that are not in your list. For 
instance, Craigiehurn-wood and Hot/'s Wife, 
The first, beside its intrinsic merit, has novelty ; 
and the last has high merit, as well as great ce- 
lebrity. I have the original words of a song 
for the last air, in the hand-writing of the iady 
who composed it ; and they are superior to any 
edition of the song which the public has yet 
seen. 

Highland Laddie. The old set will please s 
mere Scotch ear best ; and the new an Ital- 
ianized one. There is a third, and what Os- 
wald calls the old Highland Laddie, which 
pleases me more than either of them. It ia 
Eometimes called Ginglan Johnnie ; it being 
the air of an old humorous tawdry song of that 
name. You will find it in the Museum, / hoc 
been at Crookie-den, &c. I would advise you, 
in this musical quandary, to offer up your pray- 
ers to the muses for inspiring direction ; and ia 
the meantime, waiting for this direction, bestow 
a libation to Bacchus ; and there is not a doubt 
but you will hit on a judicious choice. Pto~ 
batum est. 

Aidd Sir Simon, I must beg you to leave 
out, and put in its place. The Quaker'* wife, 

Blythe hae I been o'er the hill, is one of the 
finest songs ever I made in my life ; and besides^ 
is composed on a young lady, positively the 
most beautiful, lovely woman in the world. As 
I purpose giving you the names and designa- 
tions of all my heroines, to appear ia some fu- 
ture edition of your work, perhaps half a cen- 
tury hence, you must certainly include the bort^ 
niest lass in a' the world in your collection. 

Daintie Davie, I have heard sung, nineteen 
thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine times, 
and always with the chorus to the low part of 
the tune ; and nothing has surprised me so much 
as your opinion on this subject. If it will not 
suit, as I proposed, we will lay two of the stan- 
zas together, and then make the chorus follow. 

Fee him father — I enclose you Fraser's set 
of this tune when he plays it slow ; in fact, 
he makes it the language of despair. I shall 
here give you two stanzas in that style ; merely 
to try if it will be any improvement. Were it 
possible, in singing, to give it half the pathoa 
which Fraser gives it in playing, it would make 
an admirable pathetic song. I do not give these 
verses for any merit they have. I composed 
them at the time in which Patie Allan's mi- 
ther died, that was about the back o' midnight; 
and by the leeside of a bowl of punch, which 
had overset every mortal in company, except 
the hautbois and the muse. 



( Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, p. 239.) 

Jockie and Jenny I would discard, and in 
its place would put There't nae luck about 



408 



BURNS* WORKS. 



the house, WQich has a very pleasant air ; and 
which is positively the finest love-ballad in that 
style in the Scottish, or perhaps in any other 
language. When she cam ben she hohhet, as an 
air, is more beautiful than either, and in the an- 
dante Wiy, would unite with a charming senti- 
mental ballad. 

Saw ye my father, is one of my greatest fa- 
Tourites. The evening before last, I wandered 
out, and began a tender song ; in what I think 
is its native style. I must premise, that the 
old way, and the way to give most efifect, is to 
aave no starting note, as the fiddlers call it, 
but to burst at once into the pathos. Every 
country girl sings — Saw ye my father, §-c. 

My song is but just begun ; and I should 
like, before I proceed, to know your opinion of 
it. I have sprinkled it with the Scottish dia- 
lect, but it may be easily turned into correct 
English.— (;>. 242.) 



Todlin^ home. Urbani mentioned an idea 
of his, which has long been mine ; that this air 
ii Ligldy susceptible of pathos ; accordingly, 
you will soon hear him, at your concert, try it 
to a song of mine in the Aluseum, Ye hanks 
and braes o' bonnie Doon, — One song more 
and I have done : ^uld lang syne. The air 
is but mediocre; but the following song, the 
old Bong of the olden times, and which has 
never been in print, nor even in manuscript, un- 
til I took it down from an old man's singing, is 
enough to recommend any air. 



(^Auld lang syne, p. 191.) 

Now, I suppose I have tired your patience 
&irly. You must, after all is over, have a num- 
ber of ballads, properly so called. Gill Morice, 
Tranent Muir, M'Phersons Farewell, JBat- 
tle of Sheriff-muir, or We ran and they ran, 
(I know the author of this charming ballad, 
and his history), Hardyhiute, Barbara Allan, 
(I can furnish a finer set of this tune than 
any thing that has yet appeared) ; and besides, 
do you know that I really have the old tune to 
which The Cherry and the Slae was sung ; 
and which is mentioned as a well known air in 
Scotland's Complaint, a book published before 
poor Mary's days. It was then called The 
banks oi" Helicon ; an old poem which Pinker- 
ton has brought to light. You will see all this 
in Tytler'g History of Scottish Music. The 
tune, to a learned ear, may have no great merit ; 
but it is a great curiosity. I have a good many 
original things of this kind. 



No. XLilI. 

THE POET TO MR. THOMSON 

September, 1793. 
I AM happy, my dear sir, that my ode pleases 
you so much. Your idea, " honour's bed," is, 
though a beautiful, a hackneyed idea ; so, if you 
please, we will let the hne stand as it is. I 
have altered the song as follows : — 

(^Bannock-burn, p. 195.) 

N. B. — I have borrowed the last stanza frott 
the common stall edition of Wallace. 

" A false usurper sinks in every foe, 
And liberty returns with eveiy blow." 

A couplet worthy of Homer. Yesterday you 
had enough of my correspondence. The post 
goes, and my head aches miserably. One com- 
fort ; I suffer so much, just now, in this world, 
for last night's joviality, that I shall escape scot- 
free for it in the world to come. Amen ! 



No. XLIV. 
MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 

12th September, 1793. 

A THOUSAND thanks to you, my dear Sir, for 
your observations on the list of my songs. I 
am happy to find your ideas so much in unison 
with my own respecting the generality of the 
airs, as well as the verses. About some of them 
we differ, but there is no disputing about hobby- 
horses. I shall not fail to profit by the remarks 
you make ; and to re-consider the whole with 
attention. 

JDaintie Davie must be sung, two stanzas 
together, and then the chorus — 'tis the proper 
way. I agree with you, that there may be 
something of pathos, or tenderness at least, in 
the air of Fee him, father, when performed 
with feeling ; but a tender cast may be given 
almost to any lively air, if you sing it very slow- 
ly, expressively, and with serious words. I am, 
however, clearly and invariably for retaining the 
cheerful tunes joined to their own humorous 
verses, wherever the verses are passable. But 
the sweet song for Fee him, father, which you 
began about the back of midnight, 1 will pub- 
lish as an additional one. Mr. James Balfour, 
the king of good fellows, and the best singer 
of the lively Scottish ballads that ever existed, 
has charmed thousands of companies with Fee 
him, father, and with Todlin home also, to the 
old words, which never should be disunited from 
either of these airs. Some Bacchanals I would 
wish to discard. Fy let us a' to the bridal, for 
instance, is so coarse and vulgar, that I think it 
fit only to be sung in a company of drunken col" 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



409 



lien { and Saw ye my father appears to me 
both indelicate and silly. 

One word more with regard to your heroic 
ode. I think, with great deference to the poet, 
that a prudent general would avoid saying any 
thing to his soldiers which might tend to make 
death more frightful than it is. Gory presents a 
disagreeable image to the mind ; and to tell them, 
" Welcome to your gory bed," seems rather a 
discouraging address, notwithstanding the alter- 
native which follows. I have shown the song 
to three friends of excellent taste, and each of 
them objected to this line, which emboldens me 
to use the freedom of bri nging it again under your 
notice. I would suggest, 

" Now prepare for honour's bed, 
Or for glorious victorie." 



No. XLV. 
THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

September, 1793. 

" Who shall decide when doctors disagree ?" 
My ode pleases me so much that I cannot alter 
it. Your proposed alterations would, in my o- 
piniun, make it tame. I am exceedingly oblig- 
ed to you for putting me on re-considering it ; 
as I think I have much improved it. Instead 
of " sodger ! hero !" I will have it " Caledo- 
nian! on wi' me !" 

I have scrutinized it over and over ; and to 
the world some way or other it shall go as it is. 
At the same time it will not in the least hurt 
me should you leave it out altogether and adhere 
to your firet intention of adopting Logan's verses. • 

I have finished my song to Saw ye my fa- 
ther ; and in English, as you will sec. That 
there is a syllable too much for the expression of 
the air, is true ; but allow me to say, that the 
mere dividing of a dotted crotchet into a crot- 
chet and a quaver, is not a great matter : how- 
ever, in that I have no pretensions to cope in 
judgment with you. Of the poetry I speak with 
confidence ; but the music is a business where I 
hint my ideas with the utmost diffidence. 

The old verses have merit, though unequal, 
and are popular j my advice is to set the air to 
the old words, and let mine follow as English 
verses. Here they are — 



• Mr. 'Ihomson has vcrv- properly adopted this song 
(if it may be so called) as inebard presented it to him. 
He has attached it to the air of Lewie Gordon, and per- 
haps among the existing airs lie ^-oiild not find a better ; 
but the poetry is suited to a much higher strain of mu- 
sic, and may employ the genius of some Scottish Han- 
del, if any such should in future arise. The reader 
will have olwerved, that Uurns adopted the alterations 
proposed by his friend and correspondent in former in- 
stances with great readiness ; perhaps, indeed, on all 
indifferent occasions. In the present mstance, however, 
he rejected them, though rej-catedly urged, with deter- 
mined resolution. ^ > 



( Where are the joys I hue met in the morning, 
p. 242.) 

Adieu, my dear Sir ! The post goes, so I shall 
defer some other remarks unti'. more leisure. 



No. XL VI. 
THE SAME TO THE SAME. 

September, 179S. 

I HAVE been turning over some volumes of 
songs, to find verses whose measures would suit 
the airs for which you have allotted me to find 
Ent^lish songs. 

For Muirland Willie, you have, in Ramsay's 
Tea-table, an excellent song, beginning " Ah, 
why those tears in Nelly's eyes?" As for Tht 
Collier's Dochter, take the following old Bac- 
chanal. 



(^Deluded Swain, p. 198.) 

The faulty line in Logan-water, I mend thus : 

" How can your flinty hearts enjoy 
The widow's tears, the orphan's cry ?" 

The song, otherwise, will pass. As to M*- 
Gregoira-Itua-Ruth, you will see a song of 
mine to it, with a set of the air superior to yours, 
in the Museum, Vol. ii. p. 181. The song be- 
gins, 

'' Raving winds around her blowing." 

Your Irish airs are pretty, but they are dowfi- 
right Irish. If they were like the Banks of 
JBanna, for instance, though really Irish, yet in 
the Scottish taste, you might adopt them. Since 
you are so fond of Irish music, what say you to 
twenty-five of them in an additional number ? 
We could easily find this quantity of charming 
airs ; I will take care that you shall not want 
songs ; and I assure you that you will find it 
the most saleable of the whole. If you do not 
approve of Roy's wife, for the music's sake, we 
shall not insert it. Deil tak' the wars, is a 
charming song ; so is, Saw ye my Peggy f 
Tliere's nae luck about the house, well deserves 
a place ; I cannot say that O'er the hills and 
far awa strikes me as equal to your selection. 
This is no my ain house is a great favourite air 
of mine ; and if you send mo your set of it, I 
will task my muse to her highest effort. What 
is your opinion of I hae laid a herrin in sawtf 
I like it much. Your Jacobite airs are pretty ; 
and there are many others of the same kind, 
pretty — but you have not room for them. You 
cannot, 1 think, insert, Fy let us a' to the bridle, 
to any other words than its own. 



410 



BURNS' WORKS. 



What pleases me, as simple and naive, dis- 
rusts you as ludicrous and low. For this reason, 
J^pe, gie me my coggie, sirs — Fye, let us a to 
the bridal, with several others of that cast, are, 
to me, highly pleasing ; while. Saw ye my father, 
or saw ye my Mother, delights me with its dis- 
criptive simple pathos. Thus, my song. Ken 
ye what Meg o' the mill has gotten ? pleases 
myself so much, that I cannot try my hand at 
another song to the air ; so I shall not attempt 
it. I know you will laugh at all this ; but, 
" Uka man wears his belt his ain gait." 



No. XLVIL 
THE SMIE TO THE SAME. 

October, 1793. 

Your last letter, my dear Thomson, was in- 
deed laden with heavy news. Alas, poor Ers- 
kine !• The recollection that he was a coadju- 
tor in your publication, has, till now, scared me 
from writing to you, or turning my thoughts on 
composing for you. 

I am pleased that you are reconciled to the 
air of the Quaker s Wife, though, by the bye, 
an old Highland gentleman, and a deep antiqua- 
rian, tells me it is a Gaelic air, and known by 
the name of Leiger 'm choss. The following 
verses I hope will please you, as an English song 
to the air : 

Thine am I, my faithful fair, 

Thine, my lovely Nancy. (;>. 214.) 

The rest of your letter I shall answer at some 
other opportunity. 



his manuscripts, I hope you may find out MiM 
that will answer as English songs totheain ytl 
unprovided. 



No. XLIX. 

THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

December, 179S. 
Tell me how you like the following verses 
to the tune of Jo Janet. 

( Husband, husband, cease your strife, p. 213.) 
( Wilt thou be my dearie 9 p. 242.) 



No L. 



No. XLVni. 
MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 

HV GOOD SIR, 'ith November, 1793. 

After so long a silence, it gives me peculiar 
pleasure to recognize your well known hand, 
for I had begun to be apprehensive that all was 
not well with you. I am happy to find however, 
that your silence did not proceed from that cause, 
and that you have got among the ballads once 
more. 

I have to thank you for your English song to 
Leiger 'm choss, which I think extremly good, 
although the colouring is warm. Your friend 
Mr. Turnbull's songs have doubtless consider- 
able merit ; and as you have the command of 



• 'XTie Honourable A. Erskine, brother to Lord Kel- 
ly, whose melancholy death Mr. Thomson had commu- 
Bicstod in an excellant letter, wiiich he has suppressed. 



MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 

MY DEAR SIR, Edinburgh, llth April, 1794. 

Owing to the distress of our friend for the 
loss of his child, at the time of his receiving 
your admirable but melancholy letter, I had 
not an opportunity 'till lately of perusing it.* 
How sorry am I to find Burns saying, " Canst 
thou not minister to a mind diseased ?" while 
he is delighting others from one end of the 
island to the other. Like the hypochondriac 
who went to consult a physician upon his case : 
Go, says the doctor, and see the famous Carlini, 
■who keeps all Paris in good humour. Alas ! 
Sir, replied the patient, I am that unhappy 
Carlini ! 

Your plan for our meeting together pleases 
me greatly, and I trust that by some means or 
other it will soon take place ; but your Bac- 
chanalian challenge almost frightens me, for I 
am a miserable weak drinker ! 

Allan is much gratified by your good opinion 
of his talents. He has just begun a sketch 
from your Cotter's Saturday Night, and if it 
pleases himself in the design, he will probably 
etch or engrave it. In subjects of the pastoral 
or humorous kind, he is perhaps unrivalled by 
any artist living. He fails a little in giving' 
beauty and grace to his females, and his colour- 
ing is sombre, otherwise his paintings and draw- 
ings would be in greater request. 

I like the music of the Sutnr's Dochter, 
and will consider whether it shall be added to 
the last volume ; your verses to it are pretty ; 
but your humorous English song, to suit Jo 
Janet, is inimitable. What think you of the air, 
" Within a mile of Edinburgh ?" It has always 
struck ine as a modern English imitation ; but 
is said to be Oswald's, and is so much liked, that 
I believe I must include it. The verses are lit- 



• A letter to Mr. Cunningham, to be found 
in p. 579. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



411 



tb better than namby pamhy. 
■idar it worth a itanza or two ? 



Do you con- 



No. LL 
THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

MT DKAR SIR, -May, 1791. 

I RETURN you the plates, with which I am 
highly pleased ; I would humbly propose, in- 
stead of the younker knitting stockings, to put 
a stock and horn into his hands. A friend of 
mine, who is positively the ablest judge on the 
subject I have ever met with, and though an 
unknown, is yet a superior artist with the Su- 
rin, is quite charmed with Allan's manner. I 
got him a peep of the Gentle Shepherd ; and 
he pronounces Allan a most original artist of 
great excellence. 

For my part, l look on Mr. Allan's choosing 
my favourite poem for his subject, to be one 
of the highest compliments I have ever re- 
ceived. 

I am quite vexed at Pleyel's being cooped up 
in France, as it .will put an entire stop to our 
work. Now, and for six or seven months, / 
thaU be quite in song, as you shall see by and 
by. I prot an air, pretty enough, composed by 
-Lady Elizabeth Heron of Heron, which she 
calls The Bankn of Cree. Cree is a beautiful 
romantic stream : and as her Ladyship is a par- 
ticular friend of mine, I have written the fol- 
lowing song to it. 



( The Banks of Cree, p. 226.) 



No. LH. 



THE SAME TO THE SAME. 

July, 1794. 

Is there no news yet of Pleyel? Or is your 
work to be at a dead stop, until the allies set 
our modern Orpheus at liberty from the sa- 
vage thraldom of democratic discords ? Alas 
the day ! And woe's me ! That auspicious 
period, pregnant with the happiness of mil 
lions.* — 

I have presented a copy of your songs to the 
daughter of a much-valued, and much-honoured 
friend of mine, Mr. Graham of Fintry. I wrote, 
on the blank side of the title page, the following 
addreM to the young lady. 



▲ portion of this letter has been left out, for rea- 
i tlut will be easily imagiuecL— Curbie. 



Here, where the Scottish muse immortal liveii 
In sacred strains and tuneful numbers join'd, 

Accept the gift ; though humble he who give*, 
Rich is the tribute of the grateful mind. 

So may no ruffian feeling in thy breast. 
Discordant jar thy bosom-chords among ; 

But peace attune thy gentle soul to rest, 
Or love ecstatic wake his seraph song. 

Or pity's notes, in luxury of tears. 

As modest want the tale of woe reveals ; 

While conscious virtue all the strain endears, 
And heaven-born piety her sanction seals. 



No. LIIL 



MR, THOMSON TO THE POET. 

MY DEAR SIR, Edinburgh, \Oth Aug. 1794. 
I OWE you an apology for having so long de- 
layed to acknowledge the favour of your last. 
I fear it will be as you say, I shall have no 
more songs from Pleyel till France and we are 
friends ; but, nevertheless, I am very desirous 
to be prepared with the poetry, and as the sea- 
son approaches in which your muse of Coila vi- 
sits you, I trust I shall, as formerly, be frequent- 
ly gratified with the result of your amorous and 
tender interviews ! 



No. LIV. 
THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

80M August, 1794. 

The last evening, as I was straying out and 
thinking of, O'er the hills and far awa, I 
spun the following stanza for it ; but whether 
my spinning will deserve to be laid up in store 
like the precious thread of the silk-worm, or 
brushed to the devil, like the vile manufacture 
of the spider, I leave, my dear Sir, to your usual 
candid criticism. I was pleased with several 
lines in it at first ; but I own, that now, it ap- 
pears rather a flimsy business. 

This is just a hasty sketch, until I see whe • 
ther it be worth a critique. We have many 
sailor songs ; but, as far as I at present recol- 
lect, they are mostly the effusions of the jovial 
sailor, not the wailings of his love-lorn mis- 
tress. I must here make one sweet exceptioa 
— Sweet Annie frae the Sea-beach eamt 
Now for the song. 

( On the seas and far away, p. 819.) 



412 



BURNS'S WORKS 



I give you leave to abuse this song, but do it 
In the spirit of christian meekness. 



No. LV. 



MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 

MY DEAR BiE, Edinburgh, \8th Sept. 1794>. 

You have anticipated my opinion of, On the 
seas and far away ; I do not think it one of 
your very happy productions, though it cer- 
tainly contains stanzas that are worthy of all ac- 
ceptation. 

The second is the least to my liking, parti- 
cularly " Bullets, spare my only joy." Con- 
found the bullets ! It migiit perhaps be object- 
ed to the third verse, " At the starless mid- 
night hour," that it has too much grandeur of 
imagery, and that greater simplicity of thought 
would have better suited the character uf a sai- 
lor's sweetheart. The tune, it must be re- 
membered, is of the brisk, cheerful kind. Upon 
the whole, therefore, in my humble opinion, the 
song would be better adapted to the tune, if it 
consisted only of the first and last verses, with 
the chorusses. 



No. Lvr. 
THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

Sept. 1794. 

I SHALL withdraw my, On the seas and far 
away, altogether: it is unequal, and unworthy 
the work. JMakiiig a poem is like begetting a 
son : you cannot know uhether you have a wise 
man or a fool, until you jiKiduce him to the 
world and try hir.i. ' 

For that reason I tend )ou the ofispriug of 
my brain, abortions and all ; and, as such, pray 
look over them, ami I'orgive them, and burn 
them.* I am flattered at }pnr atlopting, Ca' 
the yowcs to the hnowes, as it was owing to me 
that ever it saw the light. About seven years 
ago I was well acquainted with a worthy little 
fellow of a clergyman, a Mr. Clunie, who sung 
it charmingly ; and, at my request, Mr. Clarke 
took it down from his singing. When I gave 
it to Johnson, I added some stanzas to the song, 
and mended others, but still it will not do for 
you. In a solitary s-troll which I took to-day, 
I tried my hand on a few pastoral lines, follow- 
ing Bp the idea of the chorus, which I would 
preserve. Here it is, with all its crudities and 
imperfections on its head. 



• This Virgilian order of the poet should, I think, 
be disobeyed with respect to the song in question, 
the second stanza excepted. — Note by Mr. Thomson. 

Doctors differ. The objection to the second stanza 
does not strike the Editor.— Currie. 



( Ca' the yowu to the knowes, p. 195.) 

I shall give you my opinion of your otiut 
newly adopted songs my first scribbling fit. 



No. LVII. 

THE SAME TO THE SAJIE. 

September, 1794. 

Do you know a blackguard Irish song, called 
Onagks tvater-fall ? The air is charming, 
and 1 have often regretted the want of decent 
vei-ses to it. It is too much, at least for my 
humble rustic muse, to expect that every effort 
of hers shall have merit ; still I think that it i« 
better to have mediocre verses to a favourite 
air, than none at all. On this principle I have 
all along proceeded in the Scots Musical Mu- 
seum, and as that publication is in its last vo- 
lume, I intend the following song, to the air 
above mentioned, for that work. 

If it does not suit you as an editor, you may 
be pleased to have verses to it that you can sing 
before ladies. 

{Sae flaxen were her ringlets, p. 223.) 

Not to compare small things with great, my 
taste in music is like the mighty Frederick of 
Prussia's taste in painting : we are told that he 
frequently admired what the connoisseurs de- 
cried, and always without any hypocrisy con- 
fessed his admiration. I am sensible that my 
taste in music must be inelegant and vulgar, 
because people of undisputed and cultivated taste 
can find no merit in my favourite tunes. Still, 
because I am cheaply j)leased, is that any rea- 
son why I should deny myself that pleasure ? 
I\Iany of our strathspeys, ancient and modern, 
give me the most exquisite enjoyment, where 
you and other judges would probably be show- 
ing disgust. For instance, I am just now mak- 
ing verses for Rothemurche's Rant, an air 
which puts me in raptures ; and in fact, unless 
I be pleased with the tune, 1 never can make 
verses to it. Hei'c I have Clarke on my side, 
who is a judge that I will pit against any of 
you. " Rotliemurche," he says, " is an air 
both original and beautiful ;" and on his recom- 
mendation I have taken the first part of the 
tune for a chorus, and the fourth or last part 
for the song. I am but two stanzas deep in the 
work, and possibly you may think, and justly, 
that the poetry is as little worth your attention 
as the music* 

I have begun anew, Let me in this ae niglit. 
Do you think that we ought to retain the old 
chorus ? I think we must retain both the old 



♦ In the original follow here two stanzas of thewng, 
' Lassie wi' the lint-white locks." 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



41 S 



chorus and the first stanza of the old song. I 
do not altogether like the third line of the first 
stanza, but cannot alter it to please myself. I 
am just three stanzas deep in it. Would you 
have the denouement to be successful or other- 
wise ? — should she " let hira in" or not. 

Did you not once propose The Sow's tail to 
Geordie, as an air for your work ? I am quite 
dtliglitcd with it ; but I acknowledge that is 
no mark of its real excellence. I once set about 
verses for it, which I meant to be in the alter- 
nate way of a lover and his mistress chanting 
together. I have not the pleasure of Jcnowing 
Mrs. Thomson's Christian name, and yours, 1 
am afraid, is rather burlesque for sentiment, 
else I had meant to have made you the hero 
and heroino of the little piece. 

How do you like the fuUowiug epigram, 
which I wrote the other diy on a lovely young 
girl's recovery from a fever ? Doctor jMuxwell 
was the physician who seemingly saved her 
from the grave ; and to him I address the fol- 
lowing; — 



TO DR. MAXWELL, 

ON MISS jEssv staig's recoveut. 

Maxwell, if merit here you crave, 

That merit I deny : 
You save fair Jessy from the grave ! 

An angel could rot die I 

God grant you patience with this stupid 
^istle \ 



No. LVnL 
MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 

1 PERCEIVE the sprightly muse is now at- 
tendant upon her favourite poet, whose wood- 
notes wild are become as enchanting as ever. 
She says she lo'es me best o' a, is one of the 
pleasantest table songs I have seen, and hence- 
forth shall be mine when the song is going 
round. I'll give Cunningham a copy ; he can 
more powerfully proclaim its merit. I am far 
from undervaluing your taste fir the strathspey 
music ; on the contrary, 1 think it highly ani- 
mating aiul agreeable, and that some of the 
strathspeys, when graced with such verses as 
yours, will make very pleasing songs, in the 
same way that rough Christians are tempered 
and softened by lovely woman, without whom, 
you know, they had been brutes, 

I am clear for having the Sow's tail, parti- 
cularly as you proposed verses to it arc so ex- 
tremely promising, Geordie, as you observe, 
is a name onlv tit for burlesque composition. 
Mrs. Thomson's name (Katharine) is not at 



all poetical. Retain Jeanie, therefore, tnd 
make the other Jamie, or any other that sounds 
agreeably. 

Your Ca the yewes, is a precious little mor- 
ceau. Indeed I am perfectly astonished and 
charmed with the endless variety of your fancy. 
Here let me ask you, whether you never serious- 
ly turned \f\\iv thoughts upon dramatic writing ? 
That is a field worthy of your genius, in which 
it might shine forth in all its splendour. One 
or two successful pieces upon the London stage 
would make your fortune. The rage at present 
is for musical dramas ; few or none of those 
which have appeared since the Duenna, pos- 
sess much poetical merit : there is little in the 
conduct of the fable, or in the dialogue, to inter- 
est the audience. They are cliiefly vehicles for 
music and pageantry, I think you might produce 
a comie opera in three acts, which would live 
by the poetry, at the same time that it would be 
pr()|)er to take every assistance from her tune- 
ful fcister. Part of the songs of course would 
be to our favourite Scottish airs ; the rest might 
be left with the London composer — Storace for 
Drury-lane, or Shield for Coveat-garden ; both 
of them very able and popular musicians. I be- 
lieve that interest and manosuvring are often ne- 
cessary to have a drama brought on : so it may 
be with the numby pauiby tribe of flowery 
scribblers; but were you to address Mr, Sheri- 
dan himself by letter, and send him a dramatic 
piece, I am persuaded he would, for the honour 
of genius, give it a fair and candid triah Ex- 
cuse me for obtiudbg these hints upon your con- 
sideration. • 



No. LIX. 

THE SAME TO THE SAME, 

Edinlurnh, lith Octoicr, 1794. 

TriE last eight days have been devoted to the 
re-examination of the Scottish collections. I 
have read, and sung, and fiddled, and consider- 
ed, till I am half blind and wholly stupid. The 
few airs I have added, are enclosed. 

Peter Pindar has at length sent mc all the 
songs I expected from him, which are in gener- 
al elegant and beautiful. Have you heard of « 
London collection of Scottish airs and songs, 
just published by Jlr. Ritson, an Englishman. 
I shall send you a copy. His introductory e»- 
1 say on the subject is curious, and evince* great 
readicg and research, but does not decide the 
question as to t!ie origin of our melodies ; 
though he shows clearly that Mr. Tytler, in his 
ingenious dissertation, has adduced no sort of 
proof of the hypothesis he wished to establish ; 
and that his cUissifiuutiou of the airs, according 



• Our bard had before receiveil the same advice, and 
certainly took il so far into con>ikleration, as to have 

cast about lor .i s.bjcct. 



414 



BtJtlNS' WORKS. 



\» the era ^hea they wefe composed, is mere 
fancy and conjectuip. On John Pinkei ton, Esq. 
Le has no mercy ; but consigns him to damna- 
tion ! He snarls at ray publication, on the score 
of Pindar being engaged to write songs for it; 
uncandidly and unjustly leaving it to be inferred, 
that the songs of Scottish writers had been sent 
a-packing to make room for Peter's ! Of you he 
■peaks with some respect, but gives you a pass- 
ing hit or two, for daring to dress up a little 
some old foolish si^ngs for the Museum. His 
sets of the Scottish airs are taken, he says, from 
the oldest collections and the best authorities : 
many of them, however, have such a strange as- 
pect, and are so unlike the sets which are sung 
by every person of taste, old or young, in town 
or country, that we can scarcely recognize the 
fe&tures of our favourites. By going to the oldest 
collections of our music, it does not follow that 
we find the melodies in their original state. 
These melodies had been preserved, we know 
not how long, by oral communication, before be- 
ing collected and printed ; and as different per- 
sons sing the same air very differently, accord- 
ing to their accurate or confused recollection of 
it, so even supposing the first collectors to have 
possessed the industry, the taste and discernment 
to choose the best they could hear, (which is far 
from certain), still it must evidently be a chance, 
whether the collections exhibit any of the me- 
lodies in the state they were first composed. 
In selecting the melodies for <ny own collection, 
I have been as much guided by the living as by 
the dead. Where these differed, I preferred the 
sets that appeared to ine the most simple and 
beautiful, and the most generally approved ; 
and, without meaning any compliment to my 
own capability of choosing, or speaking of the 
pains I have taken, I flatter myself that my sets 
will be found equally freed from vulgar errors on 
tlie one hand, and affected graces on the other. 



No. LX. 

THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

MT DEAR JFRIEND, 19c'/i October, 1794. 

Bt this morning's post I have your list, and, 
in general, I highly approve of it. I shall, at 
more leisure, give you a critique on the whole. 
Clarke goes to your town by to-day's fly, and 
I wish you would call on him and take his opi- 
nion ii. general : you know his taste is a stand- 
ard. He will return here again in a week or 
two ; so, please do not miss asking for him. One 
thing I hope he will do, persuade you to a- 
dopt my favourite, Craigie-burn-wood, in your 
■election : It is as great a favourite of his as of 
nine. The lady on whom it was made is one 
of the finest women in Scotland ; and, in fact, 
(^tntrt nous) is in a manner to me what Sterne's 
£lica WIS to him — a mistress, a friend, or what 
VOtt will, in the guileless simplicity of Platonic 



love. (Now don t put atiy of yotif sqt/ibtidj 
constructions on this, or have any clishmaclaiver 
about it among our acquaintances.) I assura 
you that to my lovely friend you are indebted for 
many of your best songs of mine. Do you think 
that the sober gin-horse routine of existence, 
could inspire a man with life, and love, and joy 
— could tire him with enthusiasm, or melt him 
with pathos, equal to the genius of your book I 
— No ! no ! — Whenever I want to be more than 
ordinary in sonri : to be in some degree equal 
to your diviner airs — do you imagine I fast and 
pray for the celestial emanation ? Tout au 
contraire ! I have a glorious recipe ; the very 
one that for his own use was invented by the di- 
vinity of healing and poetry, when erst he piped 
to the flocks of Admetus. I put myself in a re- 
gimen of admiring a fine woman ; and in propor- 
tion to the adorability of her charms, in propor- 
tion you are delighted with my verses. The light- 
ning of her eye is the godhead of Parnassus, and 
the witchery of her smile the divinity of Heli- 
con ! 

To descend to business ; if you like my idea 
of. When she cam ben she babbit, the following 
stanzas of mine, altered a little from what they 
were formerly when set to another air, may per 
haps do instead of worse stanzas. 

SAW YE MY PHELY. 

( Quasi dicat Phillis,') 

Tune—" When she came ben she bobblt." 

O saw ye my dear, my Phely ? 
O saw ye my dear, my Phely ? 
She's down i' the grove, wi' a new love, 
She winna come hame to her Willie. 

What says she, my dearest, ray Phely ? 
What says she, my dearest, my Phely ? 
She lets thee to wit that she has thee forgot, 
And for ever disowns thee her Willie. 

O had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely ! 
O had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely ! 
As light as the air, and fause as thou's Ctir, 
Thou's broken the heart o' thy Willie. 



Now for a few miscellaneous remarks. The 
Posie (in the Museum), is my composition : 
the air was taken down from Mrs. Burns' 
voice. It is well known in the West Coun- 
try, b\it the old words are trash. By the bye, 
take a look at the tune again, and tell me if you 
do not think it is the original from which Hoi- 
lin Castle is composed. The second part, in 
particular, for the first two or three bars, is ex- 
actly the old air. Strathallan's Lament is 
mine ; the music is by our right-trusty and de- 
servedly well-beloved, Allan Masterton. Do- 
nocht-hcad, is not mine : I would give ten 
pounds it were. It appeared first in the Edio- 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



415 



Wgti HeraU ; and came to tlie Editor of that 
paper with th« Newcastle post-mark on it. • 
Whistle o'er the lave o't is mine ; the inusic 
■aid to be by a John Bruce, a celebrated violin 
player in Dumfries, about the beginning of this 
century. This I know, Bruce, who was an 
honest man, though a red-wud Highlandman, 
constantly claimed it ; and by all the old musi- 
cal people here, is believed to be the author of it. 

jindrew and his cutty gun. The song to 
which this is set in the Museum, is mine ; and 
was composed on Miss Euphemia Murray, of 
Lintrose, commonly and deservedly called the 
Flower of Strathraore. 

How long and dreary is the night. I met 
with some such words in a collection of songs 
aomewhere, which I altered and enlarged ; and 
to please you, and to suit your favourite air, I 
have taken a stride or two across my room, and 
have arranged it anew, as you will find on the 
other page. 

{How long and dreary is the night, p. 205.) 

Tell me how you like this. I differ from 
your idea of the expression of the tune. There 
is, to me, a great deal of tenderness in it. You 
cannot, in my opinion, dispense with a bass to 
your addenda airs. A lady of my acquaintance, 
a noted performer, plays and sings at the same 
time so charmingly, that I shall never bear to 
see any of her songs sent into the world as na- 
ked as Mr. What-d'ye-call-ura has done in his 
London coUection.f 

These English songs gravel me to death. I 
have not that command of the language that I 
have of my native tongue. I have been at 
Duncan Gray, to diess it in English, but all I 
can do is deplorably stupid. For instance : 

(i*t not woman e'er complain, p. 209.) 

Since the above, I have been out in the coun- 
try taking a dinner with a friend, where I met 
with the lady whom I mentioned in the second 
page in this odds-and-ends of a letter. As usu- 
al, I got into song ; and returning home, I com- 
posed the following. 

{^Sleep'st thou, or wak'st thou, fairest creature, 
p. 2S5.) 

If you honour tny verses by setting the air to 
them, I will vamp up the old song, and make 
it English enough to be understood. 

I enclose you a musical curiosity, an East 
Indian air, which you would swear was a Scot- 
tiah one. I know the authenticity of it, as the 
gentleman who brought it over is a particular 
acquaintance of mine. Do preserve me the 
copy I send you, as it ia the only one I kave. 



• The reader will be curious to see this poem so 
^isfaly praised by BurtM. See p. 151. 
\ Vbt. Ritwn. 



Clarke has set a basa to it, and I inttnd put> 

ting it into the Musical Muuum. H«r« foU 
low the verses 1 intend for it. 

( Tlie auld man, p. 225.) 

I would be obliged to you if you would pro- 
cure me a sight of Ritson's collection of Eng- 
lish songs, which you mention in your Utter. 
I will thank you for another information, and 
that as speedily as you please : whether thia 
miserable drawling hotch-potch epistle has not 
completely tired you of my correspondence ? 



No. LXI. 
MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 

Edinburgh, 27th October, 1794. 

I AM sensible, my dear friend, that a genuine 
poet can no more exist without his mistress than 
his meat. I wish I knew the adorable she, 
whose bright eyes and witching smiles have so 
often enraptured the Scottish bard ! that I might 
drink her sweet health when the toast is going 
round. Craiijie-htirn-wood, must certainly be 
adopted into my family, since she is the object 
of the song ; but in the name of decency, I must 
beg a new chorus verse from you. O to he ly- 
ing beyond thee, dearie, is perhaps a consum- 
mation to be wished, but will not do for singing 
in the company of ladies. The songs in your 
last will do you lasting credit, and suit the re- 
spective airs charmingly. I am perfectly of your 
opinion with respect to the additional airs. The 
idea of sending them into the world naked as 
they were born was ungenerous. They must all 
be clothed and made decent by our friend Clarke. 

I find I am anticipated by the friendly Cun- 
ningham, in sending your Ritson's Scottish col- 
lection. Permit me, therefore, to present you 
with his English collection, which you will re- 
ceive by the coach. I do not find his historical 
essay on Scottish song interesting. Your anec- 
dotes and miscellaneous remarks will, I am sure, 
be much more so. Allan has just sketched a 
charming design from H/aggie Lauder. She is 
dancing with such spirit as to electrify the piper, 
who seems almost dancing too, while he is play- 
ing with the most exquisite glee. 

I am much inclined to get a small copy, and 
to have it engraved in the style of Ritson'a 
prints. 

P. S. — Pray, what do your aneadot«s say 
concerning Maggie JLauder 9 was she a real 
personage, and of what rank ? You would sure- 
ty spier for her if you ca'd at Anstrutktr 
town. 



416 



BURNS' WOEKS. 



No. LXII. 



THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

Novemher, 1794. ' 
Many thanks to you, mj- dear Sir, for your 
present : it is a book of the utmost importance 
to me. I have yesterday begun n\y anecdotes, 
&c. for your work. I intend drawing it up in 
the form of a letter to you, which will save me 
from the tedious dull business of systematic ar- 
rangement. Indeed, as all I have to say con- 
sists of unconnected remarks, anecdotes, scraps 
of old songs, &c. it would be impossii>le t% give 
the work a beginning, a middle, and an end ; 
which the critics insist to be absolutely neces- 
sary in a work. In my last, I told you niy 
objections to the song you had selected for ilfy 
lodging is on the cold ground. On my visit 
the other day to my fair Chloris, (that is the 
poetic name of the lovely goddess of my inspi- 
ration), she suggested an idea, which I, in my 
return from the visit, wrought into the follow- 
ing song : — 



(Chloris, p. 197.J 

How do you like the simplicity and tenderness 
of this pastoral ? I think it pretty well. 

I like you for entering so candidly and so 
kindly into the story of 3Ia chere Amie. I as- 
sure you, I was never more in earnest in my 
life, than in the account of that affair which I 
Kent you in my last. Conjugal love is a passion 
which 1 deeply feel and highly venerate ; but, 
somehow, it does not make such a figure in 
poesy as that other species of the passion, 

" Where Love is liberty, and Nature law." 

Musically speaking, the fiist is an instrument 
of which the gamut is scanty and confined, but 
the tones inexpressioly sweet ; while the liist 
has powers equal to all the. intellectual modula- 
tions of the human soul. Still, I am a very 
poet in my enthusiasm of the passion. The 
welfare and happiness of the beloved object' is 
the first and inviolate sentiment that porvades 
my soul ; and whatever pleasures I might wish 
for, or whatever might be . the raptures they 
would give me, yet, if they interfere with that 
first principle, it is having these pleasures at a 
dishonest price ; and justice forbids, and gene- 
rosity disdains the pui chase! 

Despairing of my own powers to give you 
variety enough in English songs, I have been 
turning over old collections, to pick out songs 
of which the measure is something similar to 
what I want ; and with a little alteration, so as 
to suit the rhyme of the air exactly, to give you 
them for your work. Where the songs have 
hitherto been but little noticed, nor have ever 



been set to music, I think the shift a fair one. 
A song, which, under the same first verse, yOtt 
will find in Ramsay's Tea-Table Miscellany, I 
have cut down for an English dress to your 
Dainty Davie, as follows ; — 

(Chloe,p. 196.) 

You may think meanly of this, but take a 
look at the bombast original, and you will bo 
surprised that I have made so much of it. I 
have finished my song to Hothemurche's Rant; 
and you have Clarke to consult, as to the set of 
the air for singing. 

■ (Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, p. 208.) 

This piece has at least the merit of being a 
regular pastoral : the vernal morn, the summer 
noon, the autumnal evening, and the winter 
night, are regularly rounded. If you like it, 
well : if not, I will insert it in the Museum. 

I am out of temper that you should set 80 
sweet, so tender an air, as Deil tdk the wan, 
to the foolish old verses. You talk of the silli- 
ness of Saw ye my father ; by heavens, the 
odds is, gold to brass ! Besides, the old song, 
though now pretty well modernized into the 
Scottish language, is originally, and in the ear- 
ly editions, a bungling low imitation of the 
Scottish manner, by that genius Tom D'Urfey ; 
so has DO pretensions to be a Scottish produc- 
tion. There is a pretty English song hy She- 
ridan in the Duenna, to this air, which is out 
of sight superior to D'Urfey 's. It begins, 

" ^Vlien sable night each drooping plant re- 
storing." 

The air, if I understand the expression of it 
properly, is the very native language of simpli- 
city, tenderness, and love. I have again gone 
over my song to the tune as follows.* 

Now for my English song to Nancy's to thi 
Greenwood, &c. 



(Maria's Dwelling, p. 260.) 

There is an air, The Caledonian Hunt's </e- 
lii/lit, to which I wrote a song that you wil 
find in Johnson. Yc banks and braes o' bonnp 
Doon ; this air, I think, might find a place a- 
mong your hundred, as Lear says of his knights. 
Do you know the history of the air ? It is cu- 
rious enough. A good many years ago, Mr. 
James Miller, writer in your good town, a gen- 
tleman whom possibly you know, was in com- 
pany with our friend Clarke ; and talking of 
Scottish music, Miller expressed an ardent am- 
bition to be able to compose a Scots air. Mr. 



* See the song in its first and best Areas In p. 173 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



417 



Clarke, partly by way of joke, told him to keep 
to the black keys of the harpsichord, and pre- 
serve some kind of rhyme ; and he ■would in- 
fallibly compose a Scots air. Certain it is that, 
in a few days, IMr. IMiller produced the rudi- 
ments of an air, which Mr. Clarke, with some 
touches and corrections, fashioned into the tune 
in question. Ritson, you know, has the same 
Btory of the JUack Keys; but this account 
which I have just given you, Blr. Clarke in- 
formed me of, several years ago. Now to shew 
you how diflicult it is to trace the origin of our 
airs, I have heard it rejieatedly asserted that this 
was an Irish uir ; nay, I met with an Irish gen- 
tleman who affirmed he had heard it in Ireland 
among the old women ; while, on the other 
hand, a Countess informed me, that the first 
person who introduced the air into this country, 
was a baronet's lady of her acquaintance, who 
took down the notes i'roni an itinerant piper in 
the Isle of Man. How difficult then to ascer- 
tain the truth respecting our poesy and music ' 
I, myself, have' lately seen a couple of ballads 
Bung through the streets of Dumfries, with 
iny name at the head of them as the author, 
though it was the first time I had ever seen 
then. 

I thank you for admitting Craigic-hnm- 
Kood ; and I shall take circ to furnish you with 
a new chorus. In fact, the chorus was not my 
work, but a part of some old verses to the air. 
If I can catch myself in a move than ordinarily 
propitious moment, I shall write a new Craiijic- 
burn-wood altogether. My heart is much in 
the theme. 

I am ashamed, my dear fellow, to make the 
request; 'tis dunning your generosity; but in 
a moment, when I had forgotten whether I was 
rich or poor, I promised Chloris a copy of your 
songs. It wrings my honest pride to write you 
this ; but an ungracious request is doubly so 
by a tedious apology. To make you some a- 
inends, as soon as I have extracted the neces- 
sary information out of them, I will return you 
Ritson's volumes. 

The lady is not a little proud that she is to 
make so distinguished a figure in your collection, 

and I am not a little proud that I have it in „ LXIV. 

my power to ])k'ase her so much. Lucky it is 

for your patience that mv paper is done, for ^„^,„ ,„^ ,,r. fTTxrwtenfit 

t.hen I am in a scribbling humour, I know not THE POET TO MR. THOMSON, 

when to give over. ^^^^ November, 1794. 

You see, my dear Sir, what a punctuaJ cor- 
rcspuudent I am ; though indeed you may thank 
yours-^lf for the tedium of my letters, as you 
have 80 flittered me on my horsemanship with 
my favourite hobby, and have praised the 
grace of his ambling 80 much, that 1 am icarce- 
ly ever oflf his back. For insUnce, this mor- 
ning, though a keen blowing frost, in my walk 
betorc breakfast, I finiihcd my duet which you 
were pleased to i)ruise so much. \Vhether I 

.„ „..n ... -s ^-- •'•'^■'-- "nilorn.ly suc.ve.l.-d, 1 will not lay ; but 

He (hiuks the ddedunian Hunt is here it is fur you, though it u not an hour OU. 



more Bacchanalian than amorons in its naturs, 
and recommends it to you to match the air ac- 
cordingly. Pray did it ever occur to you how 
peculiarly well the Scottish airs are adapted for 
verses in the form of a dialogue ? "The first 
part of the air is generally low, and suited for 
a man's voice, and the second part in many in- 
stances cannot be sung, at concert pitch, but by 
a female voice. A song thus performed makes 
an agreeable variety, but few of ours are writ- 
ten in this form ; I wish you woidd think of it 
in some pf those that remain. The only one of 
the kind you have sent me, is admirable, and 
will be an universal favourite. 

Your verses for liothemurche are so sweetly 
pastoral, and your serenade to Chloris, for JDeil 
tak the wars, so passionately tender, that I have 
sung myself into raptures with them. Your 
song for Mij lodging is on the cold ground, is 
likewise a diamond of the first water ; I am 
quite dazzled and delighted by it. Some of your 
Chloriscs I suppose have flaxen hair, from your 
partiality for this colour ; else we differ about 
it ; for I should scarcely conceive a woman to 
be a beauty, on reading that she had lint-white 
locks ! 

Farewell thou stream that winding /lows, I 
think excellent, but it is mu-ih too serious to 
come after Nancy : at least it would seera an 
incongruity to provide the same air with merry 
Scottish and melancholy English vei-ses ! The 
more that the two sets of verses resemble each 
other in their general character, the better. 
Those you have manufactured for Dainty 
Davie, will answer charmingly. I am happy 
to find you have begun your anecdotes i I care 
not how long they be, for it is impossible that 
any thing from your pen can be tedious. Let 
me beseech you not to use ceremony in telling 
me when you wish to present any of your friends 
with the songs : the next carrier will bring yon 
three copies, and you are as welcome to twenty 
as to a pinch of suufL 



No. Lxm. 

MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 

inr GOOD SIR, IS'/i Noremh^T, 1794. 

Since receiving your Ixst, 1 have had ano 
ther interview witli Mr. CIui ke, and a long con- 
tultation. 



iiB 



fetJRNS* WORJtS. 



( OPhiUy, happy hi that- day, p> 220.) 

^ell me honestly how you like it ; and point 
but whatever you think faulty. 

I am much pleased with your idea of singing 
Dur songs in alternate stanzas, and regret that 
you did not hint it to me sooner. In those that 
remain, I shall have it in my eye. I remember 
your objections to the name Philly ; but it is 
the common abbreviation of Phiilis. Sally, the 
only other name that suits, has, to my ear, a 
Yulgarity about it, which unfits it for any thing 
«xcept burlesque. The legion of Scottish poe- 
tasters of the day, whom your brother editor, 
Wr. Ritson, ranks with me, as my coevals, have 
Always mistaken vulgarity for simplicity ; where- 
as, simplicity is as much eloign^e from vulgarity 
en the one hand, as from affected point and puer- 
ile, conceit on the other. 

I agree with you as to the air, Craigie-hurn- 
icood, that a chorus would in some degree spoil 
the effect, and shall certainly have none in my 
projected song to it. It is not however a case 
in point with Rothiemurchie ; there, as in Hoy's 
Wife of Aldivalloch, a chorus goes, to my taste, 
well enough. As to the chorus going first, that 
is the case with Roys Wife, as well as Rothie- 
murchie. In fact, in the first ])art of both tunes, 
the rhyme is so peculiar and irregular, and on 
that irregularity depends so much of their beau- 
ty, that we must e'en take them with all their 
wildness, and humour the verse accordingly. 
Leaving out the starting note, in both tunes, has, 
I think, an effect that no regularity could coun- 
terbalance the want of. 



( O Roy's wife of Aldivalloch. 
( O lassie wi' the lint-white locks. 



Try 

and 

Compare ( Roy's wife of Aldivalloch. 
with I Lassie wi' the lint-white locks. 

Does not the tameness of the prefixed syllable 
strike you ? In the last case, with the true 
furor of genius, you strike at once into the wild 
originality of the air ; whereas in the first insi- 
pid method, it is like the grating screw of the 
pins before the fiddle is brought into tune. This 
is my taste ; if I un wrong, I heg pardon of the 
eoynoscenti. 

The Caledonian Hunt is so charming, that 
it would make any subject in a song go down ; 
but pathos is certainly its native tongue. Scot- 
tish Bacchanalians we certainly want, though the 
few we have are excellent. For instance, Tod- 
2in hame is, for wit and humour, an unparalleled 
composition ; and Andrew and his cutty gun is 
the work of a master. By the way, are you not 
quite vexed to think that those men of genius, 
for tuch they certainly were, who composed our 
fine Scottish lyrics, should be unknown ! It has 
{ivcn me many a heart-uche. Apropos to Bac- 
ehanalian songs in Scottish ; I composed one 
yettcrday for an air I like rouch^-Xum^f o' pxtd 



( Contented ici' tittle, and eantte m thdxt, jt 
197.) 

Since yesterday's penmanship, I have framea 
a couple of English Stanzas, by way of an Eng 
lish song to Roy's wife. You will allow me 
that in this instance, my English corresponds ia 
sentiment with the Scottish. 

( Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? p. 196.) 

Well ! I think this, to be done in two or three 
turns across my room, and with two or three 
pinches of Irish Blackguard, is not so far amiss. 
You see I am determined to have my quantum 
of applause from somebody. 

Tell my friend Allan (for I am sure that we 
only want the trifling circumstance of being 
known to one another, to be th^ best friends oa 
earth), that I much suspect he has, in his plates, 
mistaken the figure of the stock and horn. I 
have, at last, gotten one ; but it is a very rude 
instrument. It is composed of three parts ; the 
stock, which is the hinder thigh-bone of a sheep, 
such as you see in a mutton-ham ; the horn, 
which is a common Highland cow's horn, cut 
off at the smaller end, until the aperture be large 
enough to admit the stock to be pushed up 
through the horn, until it be held by the thicker 
end of the thigh-bone ; and lastly, an oaten 
reed exactly cut and notched like that which 
you see every shepherd-boy have, when the 
corn stems are green and full-grown. The reed 
is not made fast in the bone, but is held by the 
lips, and plays loose in the smaller end of the 
stock ; while the stock, with the horn hanging 
on its larger end, is held by the hands in play- 
ing. The stuck has six or seven ventiges ou the 
upper side, and one back-ventige, like the com- 
mon flute. This of mine was made by a maa 
from the braes of Athole, and is exactly what 
the shepherds wont to use in that country. 

However, either it is not quite properly bored 
in the holes, or else we have not the art of blow- 
ing it rightly ; for we can make little of it. If 
Mr. Allan chooses, I will send him a sight of 
mine ; as I look on myself to be a kind of bro- 
ther-brush with him. " Pride in Poets is nae 
sin," and, I will say it, that I look ou Mr. Al- 
lan and IMr. Burns to be the only genuine aod 
real painters of Scottish costume ia the world. 



No. LXV. 

MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 

28th November, 1794. 
I ACKNOWLKDGK, my dear Sir, you are not 
only the most punctual, but the most delectable 
correspondent I ever met with. To attempt 
flattering you never entered my head ; the truth 
Ui I look back with surprise tt my impudenc^ 



to to frequently nibbling al liiieg atid coupleta 
W your incompafable lyrics, for which, perhaps, 
afyou had served me right, you would have 
•«nt me to the devil. On the contrary, how- 
ever, you have all along condescended to invite 
my criticism with so much courtesy, that it 
ceases to be wonderful, if I have sometimes 
given myself the airs of a reviewer. Your last 
budget demands unqualified praise : all the songs 
are charming, but the duet is a chief d'ceuvre. 
Lumps of pudding shall certainly make one of 
my family dishes ; you have cooked it so capi- 
Jally, that it will please aU palates. Do give 
Ui a few more of this cast, when you find your- 
self in good spirits : these convivial songs are 
more wanted than those of the amorous kind, 
of which we have great choice. Besides, one 
does not often meet with a singer capable of 
giving the proper effect to the latter, while the 
former are easily sung, and acceptable to every 
body. I participate in your regret that the au- 
thors of some of our best songs are unknown ; it 
is provoking to every admirer of genius. 

I mean to have a picture painted from your 
beautiful ballad, The Soldier's return, to be en- 
graved for one of my frontispieces. The most 
interesting point of time appears to me, when 
Bhe^ first recognizes her ain dear Willy, " She 
gaz'd, she redden'd like a rose." The three lines 
immediately following, are no doubt more im- 
pressive on the reader's feelings ; but were the 
painter to fix on these, then you'll observe the 
animation and anxiety of her countenance is 
gone, and he could only represent her fainting 
in the soldier's arms. But I submit the matter 
to you, and beg your opinion. 

Allan desires me to thank you for your ac- 
curate description of the stock and horn, and 
for the very gratifying compliment you pay him 
in considering him worthy of standing in a niche 
by the side of Burns in the Scottish Pantheon. 
He has seen the rude instrument you describe, 
BO does not want you to send it ; but wishes to 
know whether you believe it to have ever been 
generally used as a musical pipe by the Scottish 
shepherds, and when, and in what part of the 
country chiefly. I doubt much if it was capa- 
ble of any thing but routing and roaring. A 
friend of mine says, he remembers to have heard 
one in his younger days (made of %vood instead 
of your bone), and that the sound was abomia- 
•ble. 

Do not, I beaeech you, return any books. 



COIlIlESPOKDfiMCE. 



410 

Jacobite song, in the Museum, to fhere^Unntr 
be peace till Jttmie comes home, would not m 
well consort with Peter Pindar's excellent love- 
song to that air, I have just framed for you the 
following : 

'XMj/ Nannie's awa, p. 212.) 

How does this please you ? As to the point 
of time for the expression, in your proposed 
print from my Sodger's return .- It must cer- 
tainly be at— "Shegaxed." The interesting 
dubiety and suspense, taking possession of her 
countenance ; and the gushing fondness, with 
a mixture of roguish playfulness in his, strike 
me, as things of which a master will make a 
great deal. In great haste, but in great Uutb, 
yours. 



No. LXVI. 
THE 1»0ET TO MR." THOMSON. 

, Dectmber, 1794. 

' II i«, I assure you, the pride of my heart to 
do a&jr thing to forward, or add to the value of 



No. LXVII. 
THE SAME TO THE SAME. 

January, 1795. 

I F2AR for my songs : however, a few mar 
please, yet originality is a coy feature in com- 
position, and in a multiplicity of efforts in the 
same style, disappears altogether. For thesa 
three thousand years, we poetic folks have beea 
describmg the spring, for instance ; and as th« 
spring continues the same, there must soon be 
a sameness in the imagery, &c. of these said 
rhyming folks. 

A great critic, Aiken on songs, says, that 
love and wine are the exclusive themes for song 
writing. The following is on neither subject, 
and consequently is no song ; but will be al- 
lowed, I think, to be two or three pretty good 
prose thoughts, inverted into rhyme. 

(A mati's a man for a' that, p. 67.) 

I do not give you the foregoing song for your 
hpok, but merely by way of vive la bagatdU ; 
for the piece is not really poetry. How will 
the following do for Craigie-bum-uood f 



— . iL-u J T — - — •— .».-. "• "-.. ~ .u. ^^^ulyle-uuJ-n, wnicD I tiuuk a very 

7f W book : and «a I agret with you that the] con*ly pair. Your obwrvation on tb* difficul- 



(Sweet fa's tht ev* on Craigie-bum, p. 824.) 
Farewell ! Ood bless you. 

No. Lxvm. 

MR. THO.MSON TO THE POET. 

MY DEAR SIR, Edinburgh, SOth Jan. 1795. 

I THANK you heartily for NaPnie's awa, as 
well as for Craigie-bum, which I thiulc a very 



420 



BURNS' WORKS. 



ty of original writing in a number of efforts, in 
the lame style, strikes me very forcibly ; and it 
haa again and again excited my wonder to find 
you continually surmounting this difficulty, in 
the many delightful songs you have sent me. 
Your vive la bagatelle song. For a thai, shall 
uodoubtedly be included in my list. 



No. LXIX- 

THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

February, 1795. 
Hbbs it another trial at your favourite air. 

( O let me in this ae night, and Answer, 
p. 217.) 

I do not know whether it will do. 



As I am just gobg to bed, I wish you t {ood 
night. 



No. LXX. 
THE SAME TO THE SAME. 

Ecclefechan, Ith Feb. 1795. 

MY DEAR THOMSON, 

You cannot have any idea of the predica 
ment in which I write to you. In the course 
of my duty as supervisor (in which capacity I 
have acted of late) I came yesternight to this 
unfortunate, wicked, little village. I have gone 
forward, but snows of ten feet deep have im- 
peded my progress : I have tried to " gae back 
the gate I cam again," but the same obstacle 
has shut me up within insuperable bars. To add 
to my misfortune, since dinner, a scraper has 
been torturing catgut, in sounds that would 
have insulted the dying agonies of a sow, under 
the hands of a butcher, and thinks himself, on 
that very account, exceeding good company. In 
faet, I have been in a dilemma, either to get 
drunk, to forget these miseries ; or to hang my- 
self, to get rid of them : like a prudent man, 
(a character congenial to my every thought, 
word, and deed), I, of two evils have chosen 
the least, and am very drunk, at your service ! • 

I wrote you yesterday from Dumfries. I 
had not time then to tell you all I wanted to 
say ; and heaven knows, at present, I have not 
capacity. 

Do you know an air — I am sure you must 
know it. We'll gang nae mair to yon toicn : I 
think, in slowish time, it would make an excel- 
lent song. I am highly delighted with it ; and 
if you should think it worthy of your attention, 
I have a fair dame in my eye to whom I would 
consecrate it. 



No. LXXI. 
MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 

25th February, 1795. 

I HAVE to thank you, my dear Sir, for two 
epistles, one containing Let me iw this ae night ; 
and the other from Ecclefechan, proving, that 
drunk or sober, your " mind is never muddy." 
You have displayed great address in the abore 
song. Her answer is excellent, and at the same 
time takes away the indelicacy that otherwise 
would have attached to his entreaties. I like 
the song as it now stands very much. 

I had hopes you would be arrested some dayi 
at Ecclefechan, and be obliged to beguile the 
tedious forenoons by song making. It will 
give me pleasure to receive the verses you in- 
tend for, O wat ye who's in yon town ? 



No. LXXII. 
THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

May, 1795. 
{The Woodlark, p. 2S7.) 

Let me know your "ery first leisure how yom 
like this song. 

{Long, long the night, p. 207.) 

How do you like the foregoing ? The Irish 
air. Humours of Glen, is a great favourite of 
mine, and as, except the silly stuff in the Poor 
Soldier, there are not any decent verses for it, 
I have written for it as follows :— • 

( Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lantU 
reckon, p. 195.) 

(' Twos na her bonnie blue e'e taas my ruin, 
p. 237.) 

Let me hear from yon. 



• The bard must have been tipsy indeed, to abuse 
|w*et Ecclefechan at tbit rate. 



No. LXXin. 

MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 

You must not think, my good Sir, tliat X 
have any intention to enhance the value of taf 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



481 



gift, when I say, in justice to the ingenious and 
worthy artist, that the design and execution of 
The Cotter's Saturday Night is, in my opi- 
nion, one of the happiest productions of Allan's 
pencil. I shail be grievously disappointed if 
you a;e not quite pleased with it. 

Tne figure intended for your portrait, I think 
Strikingly like you, as far as I can remember 
your phiz. This should make the piece inter- 
esting to your family every way. Tell me 
whether Mrs. Burns finds you out among the 
figures. 

I cannot express the feeling of admiration 
with which I have read your pathetic Address 
to the Woodlark, your elegant Panegyric on 
Caledonia, and your affecting verses on Chlo- 
ris' illness. Every repeated perusal of these 
gives new delight. The other song to Laddie 
He near me, though not equal to these, is very 
pleasiag. 



No. LXXIV. 

THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

(How cruel are the parents, p. 204. ) 

(Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion, p. 211.) 

Well ! this is not amiss. You see how I 
answer your orders : your tailor could not be 
more punctual. I am just now in a high fit 
of poetizing, provided that the strait-jacket of 
criticism don't cure me. If you can in a post 
or two administer a little of the intoxicating 
potion of your applause, it will raise your hum- 
ble Ber\'ant's phrenzy to any height you want. 
I am at this moment " holding high converse" 
with the Muses, and have not a word to throw 
away on such a prosaic dog as you are. 



No. LXXV. 

THE SAME TO THE SAJIE. 

May, 1795. 
Ten thousand thanks for your elegant pre- 
sent ; though 1 am ashamed of the value of It, 
being bestowed on a man who has not by any 
means merited such an instance of kindness. I 
have shown It to two or three judges of the 
first abilities hero, and they all agree with me 
in classing it as a first-rate production. Sly 
phiz Is " sac kenspeckle," that the very joiner's 
apprentice whom Mrs. Burns employed to break 
np the parcel (I was out of town that day) 
knew it at once. My most grateful compli- 
ments to Allan, who has honoured my rustic 
muse so much with his masterly pencil. One 



strange coincidence is, that the little one who 
is making the felonious attempt on the cat's tail. 
Is the most striking likeness of an " ill-deediei 
d — n'd, wee, rumble-garie, urchin" of mine, 
whom, from that propensity to witty wicked- 
ness and manfu' mischief, which, even at twa 
days auld, I foresaw would form the striking 
features of his disposition, I named Willie Nicoll, 
after a certain friend of mine, who is one of the 
masters of a grammar-school in a city which 
shall be nameless. 

Give the enclosed epigram to my much- 
valued friend Cunulngham, and tell him that 
on Wednesday I go to visit a friend of his, to 
whom his friendly partiality in speaking of me, 
in a manner introduced mc — I mean a well 
known military and literary character, CoIomI 
Dirom. 

You do not tell me how yon liked my twv 
last songs. Are they condemned ? 



No. LXXVL 

MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 

13/A May, 1795. 

It gives me great pleasure to find that yoa 
are all so well satisfied with Mr. Allan's pro- 
duction. The chance resemblance of your little 
fellow, whose promising disposition appeared so 
very early, and suggested whom he should be 
named after, is curious enough. I am acquaint- 
ed with that person, who Is a prodigy of learn- 
ing and genius, and a pleasant fellow, though 
no saint. 

You really make me blush when you tell me 
you have not merited the drawing from me. I 
do not think I can ever repay you, or sufficient- 
ly esteem and respect you for the liberal and 
kind manner in which you have entered into 
the spirit of my undertaking, which could not 
have been perfected without you : So I beg you 
would not make a fool of me again, by speaking 
of obligation. 

I like your two last songs very much, and 
am happy to find you are in such a high fit of 
poetizing. Long may it last. Clarke has made 
a fine pathetic air to Mallet's superlative ballad 
of William and Margaret, and is to give it to 
me, to be enrolled among the elect 



No. LXXVIL 

THE POET TO MR- THOMSON. 

Is Wliistle and Fll come to ye, my lad, the 
iteration of that line is tiresome to my ear. 
Here goes what I think is an improvement : 



423 



BURNS* WORKS. 



O wlilitle, and 1*11 come to ye, my lad ; 
O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad ; 
Tho* father, and mother, and a' should gae mad, 
Thy Jeany will venture wi' ye, my lad. 

In fact, a fair dame at whose shrine I, the 
Priest of the Nine, oflFer up the incense of Par- 
oaisut ; a dame whom the Graces have attired 
in witchcraft, and whom the Loves have arm- 
ed with lightning, a Fair One, herself the he- 
roine of the song, insists on the amendment ; 
and dispute her commands if you dare ! 

( O thit it no my ain lassie, p. 2S8.) 

Do you know that you have roused the tor- 
pidity of Clarke at last ? He has requested me 
to write three or four songs for him, which he 
is to set to music himself. The enclosed sheet 
contains two songs for him, which please to 
present to my valued friend Cunningham. 

I enclose the sheet open, both for your in- 
spection, and that you may copy the song, O 
bonnie was yon rosie brier. 1 do not know 
whether I am right ; but that song pleases me, 
and as it is extremely probable that Clarke's 
newly roused celestial spark will soon be smoth- 
ered in the fogs of indolence, if you like the 
song, it may go as Scottish verses, to the air of, 
J loish my love was in a mire ; and poor Er- 
■kine's English lines may follow. 

I enclose you For a' that and a' that, which 
was never in print : it is a much superior song 
to mine. I have been told that it was com' 
posed by a lady. 



(Abw Spring has clad the grove in green, p. 

214.) 

( O ionnie was yon rosy brier, p. 216.) 

Written on the blank leaf of a copy of the last 
edition of my poems, presented to the lady, whom, 
in so many fictitiousVeveries of passion, but with 
the most ardent sentiments of real friendship, I 
have so often sung under the name of Chloris : 

Tis Friendship's pledge, my young, fair friend, 

Nor tnou the gift refuse, 
Nor witn unwilling ear attend 

The moralizmg muse. 

Since thon, in all thy youth and charms, 

Muft bid the world adieu, 
(A world 'gainst peace in constant arms) 

To join the friendly few. 

Since thy gay morn of life o'ercast, 

Chili came the tempest's lour ; 
(And ne'er misfortune's eastern blast 

Did nip a fairer fiower). 

Since life's gay scenes must charm no more, 
Stil] much ii left behind ; 



Still nobler wealth hast thou in ttora. 
The comforts of the mind I 

Thine is the self-approving glow, 
On conscious honour's part ; 

And, dearest gift of heaven below. 
Thine friendship's truest heart. , 

The joys refined of sense and taste, 
With every muse to rove ; 

And doubly were the poet blest 
These joys could he improve. 



Une bagatelle de ramitit. 



No. LXXVIII. 
MR. THOMSON TO THE FOET. 

MT DEAR SIR, Edinburgh, Sd Aug. 179&. 

This will be delivered to you by a Dr. Brian* 
ton, who has read your works, and panta for 
the honour of your acquaintance. I do not 
know the gentleman, but his friend, who applied 
to me for this introduction, being an excellent 
young man, I have no doubt he is worthy of all 
acceptation. 

My eyes have just been gladdened, and my 
mind feasted, with your last packet — ^full of 
pleasant things indeed. What an imagination 
is yours ! It is superfluous to tell you that I 
am delighted with all the three songs, as well at 
with your elegant and tender verses to Chloris. 

I am sorry you should be induced to alter 
O whistle and TU come to ye, my lad, to the 
prosaic line. Thy Jeany, will venture wi' ye my 
lad. I must be permitted to say, that I do not 
think the latter either reads or sings so well as 
the former. I wish, therefore, you would in my 
name petition the charming Jeany, whoever she 
be, to let the line remain unaltered. • 

I should be happy to see Mr. Clarke produce 
a few airs to be joined to your verses. Every 
body regrets his writing so very little, as every 
body acknowledges his ability to write well. 
Pray, was the resolution formed coolly before 
dinner, or was it a midnight tow made over a 
bowl of punch with the bard ? 

I shall not fail to give Mr. Cunningham what 
you have sent him. 

P. S. — The lady's For a' that and a' that is 
sensible enough, but no more to be compai-ed to 
youre than I to Hercules. 



• The Editor, who hai heard the heroine of this tang 
sing it herself in the very spirit of arch simplicity that 
it requires, thinlu Mr. lltomson's petition luueasoik* 
able.-^CuKBlE. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



48S 



Ko. LXXIX. 



THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

XNOUSH SOMG. 

Tun*—" Let me in tbU M nlfbt.'' 

FoKLOKK, 017 love, no comfort near, 
Far, hi from thee, I wander here ; 
Far, far from thee, the fate severe 
At which I most repine, love. 

O teert thou, love, hut near me. 
But near, near, near me ; 
How kindly thou wouldst cheer me. 
And mingle sighs with mine, love, 

Aronnd me scowls a wintry sky, 
That blasts each bud of hope and joy ; 
And shelter, shada, nor home have I, 
Save in these arms of thine, love. 
O wert, Sfc. 

Cold, alter 'd friendship's cruel part, 

To poison fortune's ruthless dart — 

Let me not break thy faithful heart, 

And say that fate is mine, lore. 

O wert, (fc. 

But dreary tho' the moments fleet, 
O let me think we yet shall meet ! 
That only ray of solace sweet 
Can on thy Chloris shine, love. 
O wert, Sfc 

How do you like the foregoing ? I have 
written it within this hour : so much for the 
speed of my Pegasus ; but what say you to his 
iottomf 



No. LXXX. 

THE SAME TO THE SAME. 

(^.Latt May a braw wooer cam down the long 
glen, p. 206. ) 

FRAGMENT. 
■ Tune-'" The Caledonian Hunfs delight." 

Why, why tell thy lover, 

Bliss he never must enjoy ; 
Why, why undeceive him, 

And give all his hopes the lie. 
O why, while fancy, raptured, slumbers, 

Chloris, Chloris all the theme. 
Why, why wouldst thou, cruel. 

Wake thy lover from his dream. 



Such is the peculiarity of the rhyme of tlui 
air, that I find it impossible to make anotbtr 
stanza to suit it. 

I am at present quite occupied with the charat'* 
ing sensations of the toothache, N hart aot % 
word to spare. 



No. LXXXI. 

MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 

iiT DEAR SIR, Sd June, 1795. 

Your English verses to JLet me in this aa 
night, are tender and beautiful ; and your bal- 
lad to the " Lothinn lassie" is a roaster-piece 
for its humour and naivety. The fragment for 
the Caledonian Hunt is quite suited to the ori- 
ginal measure of the air, and, as it plagues you 
80, the fragment must content it. I would ra- 
ther, as I said before, have had Bacchanalian 
words, had it so pleased the poet ; but, never- 
theless, for what we have received. Lord malu 
us thankful ! 



No. LXXXIL 

THE SAJIE TO THE SAME. 

bth Feb. 1796. 
O JRobby Hums are ye sleeping yet 9 
Or are ye wauking, 1 would wit f 

The pause you have made, my dear Sir, is 
awful ! Am I never to hear from you again? 
I know and I lament how much you have beea 
afiSicted of late, but I trust that returning healtk 
and spirits will now enable you to resume the 
pen, and delight us with your musings. I har* 
still about a dozen Scotch and Irish airs that I 

sh " married to immortal verse." We have 
several true born Irishmen on the Scottish list ; 
but they are now naturalized, and reckoned our 
own good subjects. Indeed we have none bet- 
ter. I believe I before told you that I have beea 
much urged by some friends to publish a col- 
lection of all our favourite airs and songs in oc- 
tavo, embellished with a number of etchings bjr 
our ingenious friend Allan ; what is your opi- 
nion of this ? 



No. LXXXHL 

THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. ; 

February, 1796. 
Makt thanks, my dear Sir, for your hand- 
eome, elegant present to Mrs, B , and for 



484 



BURNS' WORKS. 



nf remaining vol. of P. Pindar. — Peter is a 
delightful fellow, and a first favourite of mine. 
I am much pleased with your idea of publish- 
ing a collection of our songs in octavo with 
etchings. I am extremely willing to lend eve- 
ry assistance in my power. The Irish airs I 
shall cheerfully undertake the task of finding 
verses for. 

I have already, you know, equipt three with 
words, and the other day I strung up a kind of 
rhapsody to another Ilibcrniaa melody, which I 
admire much. 

(^Htyfor a lass J0»' a tocher, p. 23S.) 

If this will do, you have now four of my 
Irish engagement. In ray by-past songs, I dis- 
like one thing ; the name Chloris — I meant it 
as the fictitious name of a certain lady ; but, 
on (ccond thoughts, it is a high incongruity to 
have a Greek appellation to a Scottish pastoral 
ballad. — Of this, and some things else, in my 
ucst : I have more amendments to propose. — 
What you once mentioned of " flaxen locks" 
ia ju8t ; they cannot enter into an elegant de- 
scription of beauty. Of this also again — Go'd 
bless you!* 



No. LXXXIV. 
JIR. THO.MSON TO THE POET. 

Your Iley for a Inns loi' a iocJier^ is a most 
eTCellent song, and with you the subject is 
■oinetliing new indecil. It is tlie first time 1 have 
seen you dei)asing the god of soft desire, into an 
amateur of acres and guineas. — 

I am happy to find you approve of my pro-. 
posed octavo edition. Allan has designed and 
etched about twenty plates, and I am to have 
my choice of tlicni for tliat work. Iiidi'pc'n- 
dently of the Hogartliian humour witli wliirh 
they abouni), they exhibit the character and 
CObtume of the Scottish peasantry witli inimi- 
table felicity. In this respect, he himself says, 
they will far exceed the aijuatinta plates ho did 
for the Gentle Slie|)herd, because in the etching 
he sees clearly wliat he is doing, but not so 
with the aijuatinta, which he could nut manage' 
to his mind. 

The Dutch boors of Ostadc are scarcely more 
characteristic and natural than the Scottish 
figures in those etchings. 



• Our Poet never CKplnined what nninc he vvoukl 
have fulMtilutcU lui Ciiloni,.— A'ufc by .111. TUuiimm. 



No. LXXXV. 

THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

April, 1796. 
Alas, my dear Thomson, I fear it will be 
some time ere I tune my lyre again ! " By 
}3abel streams I have sat and wept," almost ever 
since I wrote you last : I have only known ex- 
istence by the pressure of the heavy hand ot 
sickness, and have counted time by the reper- 
cussions of pain ! Rheumatism, cold, and fever 
have formed to me a terrible combination. I 
close my eyes in misery, and open tliem with- 
out hope. I look on the vernal day, and say, 
Avith poor Ferguson^ 

" Say wherefore has an all-indulgent Heaven 
" Light to the comfortless and wretched given?" 

This will be delivered to you by a Mrs. Hy- 
slop, landlady of the Globe Tavern here, which; 
for these many years has been my howff, and 
where our frieud Clarke and I have liad many 
a merry squeeze. I am highly delighted with 
I\Ir. Allan's etchings. Tfoo'd and married 
and a' is admirable ! The grouping is beyond 
all praise. The expression of the figures, con- 
formable to the story in the ballad, is absolutely 
faultless perfection. I nest admire Turnim- 
spikc. AVliat I like least is, Jenny said to 
JiKky. Besides the female being in her ap- 
pearance if you take her stoop- 
ing into the account, she is at least two inches 
taller than hei lover. Poor Cleghorn ! I sin- 
cerely sympathize with him ! Happy I am 
to think that he yet has a well-grounded 
hope of health and enjoyment in this world. 
As for me — but that is a sub- 
ject ! 



No LXXXVI. 
JMR. THOMSON TO THE POET 

Ml May, 1796. 

I NEEB not tell you, my good Sir, what con- 
cern the receipt of your last gave me, and how 
much I sympathize in your sufferings. But 
(1(1 ni)t, I beseech you, give yourself up to de- 
spondency, nor speak the language of de- 
sfi.iir. Tlie vigour of your constitution I trust 
Will soon set you o:i your feet again ; and then 
it is to be hoped you will see the wisdom and 
the necessity of taking due care of a life so va- 
luable to your family, to your friends, and to 
the world. 

Trusting that your next will bring agreeable 
uccouiits of your convalescence, and returning 
go'jij spirits, 1 n-main, with siucere regard 
yours. 

I'. S. Mrs. Ifyslnp I doubt not delivered tbi 
gold seal to you in good condition. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



425 



No. LXXXVII. 
THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

UT SEAR SIR, 

I ONCE roeationed to you an aiv which I have 
long admired — Here's a heallh to tkem that's 
awa, hiney, but I forget if you took any notice 
of it. I have just been trying to suit it with 
verses ; and I beg leave to recommend the ai 
to your attention once more. I have only bC' 
gun it. 



(Here's a health to one Ilo'e dear, p. 201.) 



No. LXXXVIII. 

THE SMIE TO THE SAME. 

This will be delivered by a Mr. Lewars, a 
voung fellow of uncommon merit. As he will 
be a day or two in town, you will have leisure, 
if you choose, to write me by him ; and if you 
have a spare half hour to spend v;ith him, I 
■hall place your kindness to my account. I 
have no copies of the songs I have sent you, 
and I have taken a fancy to review them all, 
and possibly may mend some of tbem ; so when 
you have complete leisure, I will thank you for 
either the originals, or copies. • I had rather 
be the author of five well-written songs than of 
ten otherwise. I have great hopes that the ge- 
nial influence of the approaching summer will 
Kt me to rights, but as yet I cannot boast of 
returning health. I have now reason to believe 
that my complaint is a flying gout : a sad busi- 
ness! 

Do let me know how Cleghom is, and re- 
member me to him. 

This should have been delivered to you a 
month ago. I am still very poorly, but should 
like much to hear from you. 



No. LXXXIX. 

THE SAME TO THE SAME. 

Brow, on the Solway frith, ]2(h July, 1796. 

After all my boasted in(lei)cn<lcuce, curst 
necessity compels me to implore you for live 



• It li needless to say, that tliis revisal Uurus did 
not live to perform. 



pounds. A cruel of a haberdasher, 

to whom I owe an account, taking it into his 
head that I am dyinj, has commenced a pro- 
cess, and will iufalLbly put me into jail. Do, 
for God's sake, send nie that sum, and that by 
return of post. Forp;ive me this earnestness, 
' but the horrors of a jail have made me half dis- 
tracted. I do not ask all this gratuitously ; for, 
upon returning health, I hereby promise and en. 
gage to furnisl» you with five pounds worth of 
the neatest song (genius you have seen. I iried 
my hand en " Rothiemurchie" this morning. 
The measure is so difficult, that it is impossible 
to infuse much genius into the lines j they are 
on the other side. Forgive, forgive me ! 

{Fairest maid on Deoon Banki, p. 200.) 



No. XC. 



aiR. THOMSON TO THE POET 

MY DEAR SIR, lith July, 1796. 

Ever since I received your melancholy letter 
by Mrs. Hyslop, 1 have been ruminating in 
what manner I could endeavour to alleviate 
your sufferings. Again and again I thought of 
a pecuniary offer, but the recollection of one of 
your letters on this subject, and the fear of of 
fending your independent spirit, checked my re 
solution. I thank you heartily, therefore, for 
the frankness of your letter of the 12th, and 
with great pleasure enclose a draft for the very 
sum I proposed sending. Would I were the 
Chancellor of the Exchequer but for one day, 
for your sake. 

Pray, my good Sir, is it not possible for you 
to muster a volume of poetry ? If too much 
trouble to you in the present state of your 
health, some literary friend might be found 
here, who would select and arrange from your 
manuscripts, and take upon him the task of 
Editor. In the meantime it could be advertis- 
ed to be published by subscription. Do not 
shun this mode of obtaining the value of your 
labour ; remember Pope published the Iliad by 
subscription. Think of this, my- dear Burns, 
and do not reckon me intrusive with my ad- 
;. You are too well convinced of the re- 
spect and friendship I bear you, to impute any 
thing 1 say to an unworthy motive. Yours 
faithfully. 

The verses to " Rothiemurchie" will answer 
finely. I am happy to see you can still tun* 
your lyre. 



74 



GLOSSARY. 



The ch and gh have always the guttural sound. The sound of the EnL'lish diphthong oo, it 
commonly spelled ou. Ihe French u, a sound whicli often occurs in the Scottish language, 
is marked oo, or ui. The a in genuine Scottish words, except when forming a diphthong, 
or followed by an c mute after a single consonant, sounds generally like the broad English 
flin wall. The Scottish diphthong oc, always, and en, very often, sound like the French « 
masculine. The Scottish diphthong eij, sounds like the Latin ci. 



A', All 

Aback, away, aloot 

Abeigh, at a shy distance 

Aboon, above, up 

Abread, abroad, in sight 

Abreed, in breadth 

Addle, putrid water, &c. 

Ae, one. 

Aff, off: Aff loof, unpremeditated 

Afore, before 

Aft, oft 

Aften, often 

Agley, off the ri^ht line; wrong 

Ablins, perhaps 

Ain, own 

Airle-penny, Airles, caniest money 

Aim, iron 

Aith, an oath 

Aits, oats 

Aiver, an old horse 

Aizle, a hot cinder 

A lake, alas 

Alane, alone 

Akwart, awkward 

Amaist, almost 

Amang, among 

An', and; if 

Ance, once 

Ane, one ; and 

Anent, over against 

Anither, another 

Ase, ashes 

Asklent, asquint ; aslant 

Asteer, abroad ; stirring 

Athart, athwart 

Aught, possession ; as, In a' ray aught, in all 
my possession 

Aula lang syne, olden time, days of other 
years 

Auld, old 

Aoldfarran, or, auld farraat, sagacious, cun- 
ning, prudent 

(1) 



Ava, at all 
Awa', away 
Awfu', awtui 

■ Awn, the beard of barley, oots, &«. 
' Awnie, bearded 

■ Ayont, beyond 



B 

BA', baU 

Backets, ash boards 

Backlins, coming ; coming back, returning 

Back, returning 

Bad, did bid 

Baide, endured, did stay 

Baggie, the belly 

Bamie, having large bones, stout 

Bairn, a child 

Bairntime, a family of children, a brood 

Baith, both 

Ban, to swear 

Bane, bone 

Bang, to beat ; to strive 

Bardie, diminutive of bard 

Barefit, barefooted 

Barmie, of, or like barm 

Batch, a crew, a gang 

Batts, bots 

Baudrons, a cat 

Bauld, bold 

Bawk, bank 

Baws'nt, having a white stripe down the fac4 

Be, to let be ; to give over ; to ceas« 

Bear, barley 

Beastie, diminutive of beast 

Beet, to add fuel to fire 

Beld, bald 

Belyve, by and by 

Ben, into the spence or parlour ; a spene« 

Benlomond, a noted mountain in Dumbarton* 

shire 
Bethankit, grace after meat 
Beuk, a book 
Bicker, a kind of wooden dish ; a sboct ZMt 



GLOSSARY. 



Bie, or Bield, shelter 

Bien, wealthy, plentiful 

Big, to build 

Biggin, building; a house 

Biggit, built 

Bill, a bull 

Billie, a brother ; a young ftllow 

Bing, a heap of grain, potatoes, &c. 

Birk, birch 

Birken-shaw, Birche'i-wood-sliaw, a small 
wood. 

Birkie, a clever fellow 

Birring, the noise of partridges, &c. when they 
spring 

Bit, crisis, nick of time 

Bizz, a bustle, to buz;: 

Blastie, a shrivelled dwarf; a term of contempt 

Blastit, blasted 

Blatc, bashful, sheepish 

Blatlier, bladder 

Bladd, a flat piece of any thing; to slap 

Blaw, to blow, to boast 

Bleerit, bleared, sore with rheum 

Bleerit and blin', bleared and blind 

Bleezing, blazing 

Blellum, an idle talking fellow 

Blether, to talk idly ; nonsense 

Bleth'rin', talking idly 

Blink, a little while ; a smiling look ; to look 
kindly ; to shine by fits 

Blinker, a term of contempt 

Blinkin, smirking 

Blue-gown, one of those bep;gars who get an- 
nually, on t!ie king's birth-day, a blue cloak 
or gown, with a Li-.dge 

Bluid, blood 

Bluntic, a sniveller, a stupid person 

Blype, a shred, a large piece 

Bock, to vomit, to gush intermittently 

Booked, gushed, vomited 
Bodle, a small gold coin 

Bogles, spirits, hoi)goblins 

Bonnie or bonny, handsome, beautiful 

Bonnock, a kind of thick cake of bread, a 

small jannock, or loaf made of oat meal 
Boord, a board 
Boortree, tiie shrub elder ; planted much of 

old in hedges of barn-yards, &c. 
Boost, behaved, must needs 
Bore, a hole in the wall 
Botch, an angry tumour 
Bousing, drinking 
Bow-kail, cabbage 
Bowt, bended, crooked 
Brackens, fern 
Brae, a declivity ; a precipiece ; the dope of a 

hill 
Braid, broad 
Bramdg't, reeled forward 
Braik, a kind of harrow 
Braindge, to run rashly forward 
Brak, broke, made insolvent 
Branks, a kind of wooden curb for horses 
Brash, a sudden illness 
Brats, coarse clothes, rags, &c. 
Brattle, a short race ; hurry ; fury 
Braw, fine, handsome 

Brawly, or brawJie, very well ! finely ; heartily 
Braxie, a morbid sheep 
Breastie, diminutive of breast 
Breastit, did spring up or forward 
Breckan, fcin 

(2) 



Breef, an invulnerable or irresistible spell 

Hreeks, breeches 

Brent, smooth 

Biewin', brewing 

Brie, juice, liquid 

Brig, a bridge 

Brunstane, l)rimstone 

Brisket, the breast, the bosom 

Brither, a brother 

Brock, a badger * 

Brogue, a hum ; a trick 

Broo, broth ; a trick 

Broose, broth; a race at country weddings, 

who shall first reach the bridegrooms's house 

on returning from church 
Browster-wives, i.Ie-liouse wives 
Brugh, a burgh 
Bruilzie, a broil, a combustion 
Brunt, did burn, burnt 
Brust, to burst ; burst 
Buchan-bullers, the boiiuig of tlie sea among 

the rocks of Buchan 
Buckskin, an inhabitant of Virginia 
Bught, a pen 
Buginin-tmie, the time of collecting the sheep 

in the pens to be milked 
Buirdly, stout made ; broad made 
Bum-clock, a humming beetle that flies in the 

summer evenings 
Bumming, humming as bees 
Bummle, to blunder 
Bummler, a blunderer 
Bunker, a window-seut 
Burdies, diminutive of birds 
Bure, did bear 
Burn, water, a rivulet 
Buinewin, i. e. burn the wind, a blacksmith 
Burnie, diminutive of burn 
Buskie, bushy 
Buskit, dressed 
Busks, dresses 
Bussle, a bustle ; to bustle 
Buss, shelter 
But, hot, with ; without 
But an' ben, the country kitchen and parlour 
By himsel, lunatic, distracted 
Byke, a bee-hive 
Byre, a cow-stable ; a sheep-pen 



C A , to call, to name ; to drive 

Ca't, or ca'd, called, dri/ven ; calved 

Cadger, a carrier 

Cadie, or Caddie, a person ; a young fellow 

Caff; chafl' 

Caird, a tinker 

Cairn, a loose heap of stones 

Calf-ward, a small enclosure for calves 

Callan, a boy 

Caller, fresh ; sound ; refreshing 

Canie, or cannie, gentle, mild ; dexterous 

Ciinnilie, dexterously; gently 

Cantie, or canty, cheerful, merry 

Cantrip, a charm, a spell 

Ca))e-stanc, cojie-stone ; key-stone. 

Careerin, cheerfully 

Carl, an old man 

Carlin, a stout old woman 

Cartes, cards 

Cnudron, a cauldron 

Cauk on' keel, chalk and red cky 



GLOSSARY. 



Cauld, cold 

Caup, a wooden drinking vessel. 

Cesses, taxes 

Clianter, a part of a bajqiipe 

Chap, a person, a fellow ; a blow 

Chaiip, a stroke, a blow 

Clietkit, cliceked 

Clieep, a chirp ; to chirp 

Chiel, or checl, a younj^ fellow 

Chinila, or chinilie, a fire-grate, a fire-place 

Chiiiila-lug, tne fireside 

Chittering, shivering, trembling 

Chockin', choking 

Chow, to chew ; Cheek for chow, side by side 

Chuffie, fat-faced 

Clachan, a small village about a church; a 

hamlet 
Claise, or claes, clothes 
Claith, cloth 
Claithing, clothing 

Claivers, nonsense ; not speaking sense 
Clap, clapper of a mill 
Clarkit, wrote 

Clash, an idle tale, tiie story of the day 
Clatter, to tell idle stories ; an idle story 
Claught, snatched at, laid hold of 
Claut, to clean ; to scrape 
Clauted, scraped 
Clavers, idle stories. 
Claw, to scratch 
Cleed, to clothe 
deeds, clothes 
Cleekit, having caught 
Clinkin, jerking ; clinking 
Clinkumbell, he who rings the church-bcU 
Clips, shears 

Clishmaclaver, idle conversation 
Clock, to hatch ; a beetle 
(,'lockin, hatching 

Cloot, tlie hoof of a cow, sheep, &c. 
Clootie, an old name for the Devil. 
Clour, a bump or swelling after a blow 
Cluds, clouds 
Coaxin, wheedling 
Coble, a fishing boat 
Cockernony, a lock of hair tied upon a girl's 

head ; a cap 
Coft, bought 
Cog, a wooden dish 
Coggie, diminutive of cog 
Coila, from Kyle, a district of Ayrshire ; so 

called, saith tradition, from Coil, or Coilus, 

a Pictish monarch 
Collie, a general and sometimes a particular 

name for country curs 
Collieshangie, quarrelling, an uproar 
Commaun, command 
Cood, the cud 

Coof, a blockhead ; a ninny 
Cookit, appeared and disappeared by fits 
Coost, did cast 
Coot, the ankle or foot 
Cootie, a wooden kitchen dish : — also, those 

fowls whose legs are clad with feathers are 

said to be cootie 
Corbies, a species of the crow 
C-ore, corps ; party ; clan 
Corn't, fed with oats 
Cotter, the inhabitant of a cot-house, or cot- 

tagcr 
Coutnie, kind, loving 

(3) 



Cove, a cave 

Cowe, to terrify ; to keep under, to lop; iVIght ; 
a branch of furze, broom, &c. 

Cow^1, to barter ; to tumble over ; a gang 

C'owjiit, tumbled 

Cowrin', cowering 

Cowt, a colt 

Cozie, snug 

Cozily, snugly 

Crabbit, crabbed, fretful 

Crack, conversation ; to converse 

Crackin', conversing 

Craft, or croft, a field near a house (in old 
husbandry) 

Craiks, cries or calls incessantly ; a bird 

Crambo-clink, or crambo-jingle, rhymes, dog- 
grel verses 

Crank, the noise of an ungreased wheel 

Crankous, fretful, captious 

Cranrcuch, tlie hoar frost 

(^rap, a crop ; to crop 

Craw, a crow of a cock ; a rook 

Creel, a basket ; to have one's wits in a creel, 
to be crazed ; to be fascinated 

Crcepie-stool, the same as cutty-stool 

Crecshie, greasy 

Crood, or croud, to coo as a dove 

Croon, a hollow and continued moan ; tomake 
a noise like the continued roar of a bull ; to 
hum a tune 

Crooning, humming 

Crouchie, crook-backed 

Croose, cheerful ; courageous 

Crousely, cheerfully ; courageously 

Crowdic, a composition of oat-meal and boil- 
ed water, sometimes from the broth of beef, 
mutton, &c. 

Crowdie-time, breakfast time 

Crowlin', crawling 

Crunimock, a cow with crooked horns 

Crump, hard and brittle ; spoken of bread 

Crunt, a blow on the head with a cudgel 

Cuif, a blockhead, a ninny 

Cummock, a short staff with a crooked head 

Curchie, a courtesy 

Curler, a player at a game on the ice, practis- 
ed in Scotland, called curling 

Curlie, curled, whose hair falls naturally in 
ringlets 

Curhng, a well known game on the ice 

Curmurring, murmuring ; a slight rumbling 
noise 

Currin, the crupper 

Cusnat, the dove, or wood-pigeon 

C utty, short.', a spoon broken in the mlddla 

L uity-stool, the stool of repentance 

D 

DADDIE, a father 

Daffin, merriment ; foolishness 

Daft, merry, giddy ; foolish 

Daimen, rare, now and tlien ; (daimen-icker, 

an ear of corn now and then. 
Dainty, pleasant, good humoured, agreeable 
Daise, dacz, to stupify 
Dales, plains, valleys 
Darklins, darkling 
Daud, to thrash, to abuse 
Daur, to dare 
Daurt, dared 



OtOSSAftY. 



l^utg, Of daurk, a day's labonc 

Davoc, David 

Dawd, a large piece 

Dawtit, or akv/tet, fondled, caressed 

gearies, diminutive of dears 
earth fu', dear 
Deave, to deafen 

Deil-ma-care ! no matter ! for all that ! 
Deleerit, delirious 
Descrive, to describe 
Dight, to wipe ; to clean corn from chaff 
Bight, cleaned from chaff 
Ding, to worst, to push 
Dink, neat, tidy, trim 
Dinna, do not 

Dirl, a slight tremulous stroke or pain 
Dizen, or dizz'n, a dozen 
Doited stupified, hebetated 
Dolt, kwupined, crazed 
Donsie, unlucky 
Dool, sorrow ; to sing dool, to lament, to 

mourn 
Doos, doves 
Dorty, saucy, nice 

Douce, or douse, sober, wise, prudent 
Douceiy, soberly, prudently 
Dought, was or were able 
Doup, backside 

Doup-skelper, one that strikes the tail 
Dour and din, sullen and shallow 
Doure, stout, durable ; sullen, stubborn 
Dow, am or are able, can 
Dowff, pithless, wanting force 
Dowie, worn with grief, fatigue, &c. half a- 

sleep 
Downa, am or are not able, camiot 
Doylt, stupid 

Dozent, stupified, impotent 
Drap, a drop ; to drop 
Draigle, to soil by trailing, to draggle among 

wet, &c. 
Drapping, dropping. 

Draunting, drawling ; of a slow eDunciation 
Dreep, to ooze, to drop 
Dreigh, tedious, long about it 
Dribble, drizzling; slaver 
Drift, a drove 
Droddum, the breech 
Drone, part of a bagpipe 
Droop.rumpl't, that droops at the crupper 
DrouKit, wet 
Drounting, drawling 
Drouth, thirst, drought 
Drucken, drunken 
Drumly, muddy 
Drummock, meal and water mixed in a raw 

state 
Drunt, pet, sour humour 
Dub, a small pond 
Duds, rags, clothes 
Duddie, ragged 
Dung, worsted ; pushed, driven 
Dunted, beaten, boxed 
Dush, to push as a ram, &c. 
Dusht, pushed by a ram, ox, &e. 



£*E, the eye 
X'enj the eyes 
S'eainf , erttuBg 



Eerie, frighted, dreading spirits 

Eild, old age 

Elbuck, the elbow 

Eldritch, ghastly, frightful 

Eller, an elder, or church officer 

En', end 

Enbrugh, Edinburgh. 

Eneugh, enough 

Especial, especially 

Ettle, to try, to attempt 

Eydent, diligent 



FA', faU ; lot ; to fall 

Fa's does fall ; water-falls 

Faddom't, fathomed 

Fae, a foe 

Feam, foam 

Faiket, unknown 

Fairin', a fairing ; a present 

Fallow, fellow 

Fand, did find 

Farl, a cake of oaten bread, &c. 

Fash, trouble, care ; to trouble, to care for 

Fasht, troubled 

Fasteren-e'en, Fasten's Evea 

Fauld, a fold ; to fold 

Faulding, folding 

Faut, fault 

Faute, want, lack 

Fawsont, decent, seemly 

Feal, a field ; smooth 

Fearfu', frightful 

Feart, frighted 

Feat, neat, spruce 

Fecht, to fight 

Fechtin', fighting 

Feck, many, plenty 

Fecket, an under waistcoat with sleevee 

Feckfu', large, brawny, stout 

Feckless, puny, weak^ silly 

Feckly, weakly 

Feg, a fig 

Feide, feud, enmity 

Feirrie, stout, vigorous, healthy 

Fell, keen, biting; the flesh immediately ud« 

der the skin ; a field pretty level, on the aide 

or top of a hill 
Fen, successful struggle ; fi^t 
Fend, to live comfortably 
Ferlie, or ferley, to wonder ; a wonder { « tens 

of contempt 
Fetch, to pull by fits 
Fetch't, pulled intermittent!/ 
Fidge, to fidget 
Fiel, soft, smooth 
Fient, fiend, a petty oath 
Fier, sound, healthy ; a brother : a friend 
Fissle, to make a nistlijig noise ; to fidget ) » 

bustle 
Fit, a foot 
Fittie-lan', the nearer horse of the hindmoet 

pair in the plough 
Fizz, to make a mssing noise, like fcrmeaUU 

tion 
Flainen, flannel 

Fleech. to supplicate in a flattering mfininr 
Fleech'd, supplicated 
Fleechin', supplicating 
Fleesh, a fleece 



(*) 



glossary; 



fteg, i kick, & i'ahdom «tfoke 

Fletner, to decoy by fair words 

Pletherin', flattering 

Fley. to scare, to frighten 

Flitcner, to flutter, as young nestlings when 

their dam approaches 
Flinders, shreds, broken pieces, splinters 
Flingin'-tree, a piece of timber hung by way 

of partition between two horses in a stable ; 

a flail 
riisk, to fret at the yoke 
Flisket, fretted 
Flitter, to vibrate like the wings of small 

birds 
Flittering, fluttering, vibrating 
Flunkie, a servant in livery 
Fodgel, squat and plump 
Foord, a ford 
Forbears, forefathers 
Forbye, besides 

Forfairn, distressed; worn out, jaded 
Forfoughten, fatigued 
Forgather, to meet, to encounter with 
Forgie, to forgive 
Foriesket, jaded with fatigue 
Fother, fodder 
Fou, full ; drunk 
Foughten, troubled, harassed 
Fouth, plenty, enough, or more than enough 
Fow, a bushel, &c. ; also a pitch-fork 
Frae, from ; off 
Frammit, strange, estranged from, at enmity 

with 
Freath, froth 
Frien', friend 
Fu', fuU 

Fud, the scut, or tail of the hare, cony, &c 
Fuff", to blow intermittently 
FuflT't, did blow 
Funnie, full of merriment 
Fur, a furrow 
Furm, a form, bench 
Fyke, trifling cares ; to piddle, to be in a fuss 

about trifles 
Fyle, to soil, to dirty 
Fyl't, soiled, dirtied 

G 

OAB, the mouth ; to speak boldly, or pertly 

Oaberlunzie, an old man 

Gadsman, a ploughboy , the boy that drives the 

horses in tne plough 
Oae, to go ; gaed, went ; gaen, or gane, gone; 

gaun, going 
Gaet, or gate, way, manner; road 
Gairs, triangular pieces of cloth sewed on the 

bottom of a gown, &c. 
Gang, to go, to walk 
Gar, to make, to force to 
Gar't, forced to 
Garten, a garter 
Gash, wise, sagacious; talkative; to converse 
Gashin', conversing 
Gaucy, jolly, large 
Gaud, a plough 

Gear, riches ; goods of any kind 
Geek, to toss the head in wantooacss or scorn 
Ged, a pike 

Gentles, great folks, gentry 
Genty, elegantly farmed, neat 
. Ocordie, a guinea 

(5) 



Get, a child, a youtig «ta 

Ohaist, a ghost 

Gie, to give ; giid, gave J gien, giTtU 

Giftie, diminutive of gift 

Oiglets, playful girls 

Gillie, diminutive of gill 

Gilpey, a lialf grown, half informed bojr ol 

girl, a romping lad, a hoiden 
Gimmer, a ewe from one to two years old 
Gin, if ; against 
Gipsey, a young girl 
Girn, to grin, to twist the features in rage, 

agony, &.c. 
Girning, grinning 
Gizz, a periwig 
Glaiket, inattentive, foolish 
Glaive, a sword 

Gawky, half-witted, foolish, romping 
Glaizie, glittering ; smooth like glass 
Glaum, to snatch greedily 
GlaumM, aimed, snatched 
Gleck, sharp, ready 
Gleg, sharp, ready 
Gleib, glebe 

Glen, a dale, a deep valley 
Gley, a squint ; to squint ; a-gley, offat a iidoi 

wrong 
Glib-gabbet, smooth and ready in speech 
Glint, to peep 
Glinted, peeped 
Glintin', peeping 
Gloamin', the twilight 
Glowr, to stare, to look ; a stare, a look 
Glowred, looked^ stared 
Glunsh, a frown, a sour look 
Goavan, looking round with a strange, inqiur* 

ing gaze ; staring stupidly 
Gowan, the flower of the wild daisy, hawk- 
weed, &c. 
Gowany, daisied, abounding with daisies 
Gowd, gold 
Gowfl*, the game of golf; to strike as the bat 

does the ball at golf 
Gowff 'd, struck 

Gowk, a cuckoo ; a term of contempt 
Gowl, to howl 

Grane, or grain, a groan ; to groan 
Grain'd and grunted, groaned and grunted 
Graining, groaning 
Graip, a pronged instrument used for cleaning 

stables 
Graith, accoutrements, furniture, dress, gear 
Grannie, grandmother 
Grape, to grope 

Grapit, groped ^ 

Grat, wept, shed tears 
Great, intimate, familiar 
Grce, to agree ; to bear the grce, to be dedd* 

edly victor 
Gree't, agreed 

Greet, to slied tears, to weep 
Grectin", crying, weeping 
Grippet, catched, seized 
Groat, to get the whistle of one's groat, to pkj 

a losing game 
Grousome, loathsomely grim 
Grozet, a gooseberry 
Grumph, a grunt; to grunt 
(irumphie, a sow 
(irun', ground 
I Grunstane, a grindstone 
I Gruntlc, the phiz ; a gruatiof noiM 



GLOSSARY. 



Grunzfe, mouth 

Grushie, thick ; of thviving growth 

Gude, the Supreme Being ; good 

Guid, good 

Guid-niornin', good morrow 

Guid-e'en, good evening 

Guidinan and guidwife, the master and mis- 
tress of the house ; young guidman, a man 
newly married 

Guid-willie, liberal ; cordial 

Guidfather, guidmother, father-in-law, and 
mother-in-law 

Gully, or guUie, a large knife 

Gumlie, muddy 

Gusty, tasteful 

H 

HA', hall 

Ha'-Bible, the great bible that lies in the 
haU 

Hae, to have 

Haen, had, the participle 

Haet, fint haet, a petty oath of negation ; no- 
thing 

Haftet, the temple, the side of the head 

Ilafflins, nearly Iwlf, partly 

Hag, a scar, or gulf in mosses, and moors 

Haggis, a kind of pudding boiled in the sto- 
mach of a cow or sheep 

Hain, to spare, to save 

Hain'd, spared 

Hairst, harvest 

Haith, a petty oath 

Haivers, nonsense, speaking without thought 

Hal', or hald, an abiding place 

Hale, whole, tight, healthy 

Haly, holy 

Hame, home 

Hallun, a particular partition-wall in a cot- 
tage, or more properly a seat of turf at the 
outside 

Hallowmas, Hallow-eve, the 31st of October 

Hamely, homely, affable 

Han', or haun', hand 

Hap, an outer garment, mantle, plaid, &c. to 
wrap, to cover ; to hop 

Happer, a hopper 

Happin', hopping 

Hap step an' loup, hop skip and leap 

Harkit, hearkened 

Harn, very coarse linen 

Hash, a fellow that neither knows how to dress 
nor act with propriety 

Hastit, hastened 

Haud, to hold 

Haughs, low lying, rich lands ; valleys 

Haurl, to drag; to peel 

Haurlin, peelin-g 

Haverel, a half witted person ; half witted 

Havins, good manners, decorum, good sense 

Hawkie, a cow, properly one witli u white face 

Heapit, heaped 

Healsome, healthful, wholesome 

Hearse, hoarse 

Hear't, hear it 

Heather, heath 

Hech ! oh ! strange ! 

Hccht, promised ; to foretell something that is 
to be got or given ; foretold; the thing fore- 
told ; ofiered 

Heckle, a board, in which arc fixed a number 

(6» 



of sharp pins, used in dressing hemp,flaXt 

&c. 
Heezc, to elevate, to raise 
Helm, the rudder or helm 
Herd, to tend Hocks ; one who tends flocks 
Herrin, a herring 
Hcrry, to plunder; most properlj to plundav ; 

birds' nests 
Hcrry mcnt, plundering, devastation 
Hcrsel,. herself; also a herd of catde, ot aoy 

sort 
Ilet, hot 

Heugh, a crag, a coalpit 
Wilcn, a hobble ; to halt 
Hildiin, halting 
Hiuisel, himself 
Hinoy, honey 
Hing, to hang 

Hirple, to walk crazily, to creep 
Hirsel, so many cattle as one person can Ittte&d 
Hastie, dry; chapped; barren 
Hitch, a loop, a knot 
Hizzie, a hussy, a young girl 
Hoddin, the motion of a sage countryman rid- 
ing on a cart-horse ; humble 
Hog-score, a kind of distance-line, in curBng^ 

drawn across the rink 
Hog-shouther, a kind of horse- play, byjtUt* 

ling with the shoulder ; to justle 
Hool, outer skin or case, a nut-shell ; a pMS> 

cod 
Hoolie, slowly, leisurely 
Iloolie ! take leisure, stop 
Hoord, a hoard ; to hoard 
Hoordit, hoarded 
Horn, a spoon made of horn 
Hornie, one of the many names of the devU 
Host, or hoast, to cough ; a cough 
Hostin', coughing 
Hosts, coughs 

Hotch'd, turn'd topsyturvy ; blended, mixed 
Houghmagandie, fornication 
Houlct, an owl 
Housie, diminutive of house 
Hove, to heave, to swell 
lioved, heaved, swelled 
Howdie, a midwife 
Howe, hollow ; a hollow or dell 
Howebackit, sunk in the back, spoken of a 

horse, &c. 
Howft", a tippling house ; a house of teaort 
Howk, to dig 
Howkit, digged 
Howkin, digging 
Howlet, an owl 
H oy, to urge 
Hoy't, urged 
Hoyse, to pull upwards 
Hoyte, to amble crazily 
Hughoc, diminutive ot Hugh 
Hurcheon, a hedgehog 
Hurdies, the loins : the crupper 
liushion, a cushion 



r, in 

Icker, an ear of com 

ler-oe, a great-grandchild 

Ilk, or ilka, each, every 

Ill-willie, ill-natured, malicious, niggardly 

Ingine, genius, ingenuity 



CLOSSATIV, 



Tng]e, fire ; firc-placo 
Ise, I shall or will 
Ither, other ; one onothci 



JAD, jade ; also a familiar term among coun- 

try folks for a gidcly young gill 
JauK, to dally, to trifle 
Juukin', trifling, dallying 
Jaup, a jerk of water ; to jerk as agitated wa- 
ter. 
Jaw, coarse raillery ; to pour out 5 to shut, to 

jerk as water 
Jerkinet, a jerkin, or short grown 
Jjllet, a jilt, a giddy girl 
Jimp, to jump ; slender in tlie waist ; hand- 

some 
Jimps, easy stays 
Jink, to dodge, to turn a comer ; a sudden 

turning ; a corner 
Jinker, that turns quickly ; a gay sprightly 

girl ; a wag 
Jinkin', dodging 
Jirk, a jerk 

Jocteleg, a kind of knife 
Jouk, to stoop, to bow the head 
Jow, to jow, a verb which includes both the 

swinging motion and pealing sound of a 

large bell 
^undie, to justle 



KAE, a daw 

Kail, colewort ; a kind of broth 
Kail-runt, the stem of colewort 
Kain, fowls, &c. paid as rent by a farmer 
Kebbuck, a cheese 
Keckle, to giggle ; to titter 
Keek, a peep, to peep 

Kelpies, a sort of mischievous spirits, said to 
haunt fords and ferries at night, especially 
in stonns 
Ken, to know ; kend or kenn'd, knew 
Kenniii, a small vnattcr 
Kenspeckle, well known, easily known 
Ket, matted, hairy ; a fleece of wool 
Kilt, to truss up the clotlics 
Kimmer, a young girl, a gossip 
Kin, kindred ; kin', kind, adj. 
King's-hood, a certain part of the entrails of 
an ox, &c, 

Kintra, country 

Kintra cooser, country stallion 

Kirn, the harvest suppcf 1 a chum 
Kirsen, to christen, or baptize 

Kist, a chest ; a shop counter 

Kitchen, any thing that cats with bread ; to 
serve for soup, gravy, Sue. 

Kith, kindred 

Kittle, to tickle ; ticklish ; lively, apt 

Kittlin, n young cat 

Kiuttlc. to cuddle 

Kuitilin, cuddling 

Knaggic, like kn;igs. or points ofrorks 

Knap, to strike smartly, a smart hUiw 

Knapptn-hanmicr, a hanuncr used for break 
ing stones 

Knowc, a small round hillock 

Kinitl, a dwarf 

K^'c, cows 



Kyle, a district in Ayrshire 

Kyte, the belly 

Kyihc, to discover ; to shov one'i self. 



LADDIE, diminutive of lad 

Laggcn, tlie angle between the Bide and Ml* 

tom of a wooden dish 
Laigb, low 
Lairing, wading, and sinking in snow, mui, 

&c. 
Laith, loath 

Laithfu', bashful, sheepish 
Lallans, the Scottish dialect of the EngEsb 

language 
Lambie, diminutive of lamb 
Lampit, a kind of shell-fish, a limpit 
Lan', land ; estate 
Lane, lone ; my lane, thy lane, Ac. mjMU 

alone, &c. 
Lanely, lonely 

Lang, long ; to thbk lang, to long, to weaiy 
Lap, did leap 

Lave, the rest, the remainder, the othcia 
Laverock, the lark 
Lawin, shot, reckonmg, bill 
Lawlan', lowland 
Lea'e, to leave 
Leal, loyal, true, faithful 
Lea-rig, grassy ridge 
Lear, (pronounced lare), learning 
I^ee-lang, live-long 
Leesome, pleasant 
Leeze-me, a phrase of congratulatory endctr- 

ment; I am happy in iliee, or proud 0/ 

thee 
licister, a three-prong'd dart for striking fish 
Leui^h, did laugh 
Leuk, a look ; to look 
Libbet, gelded 
Lift, the sky 

Lightly, sneeringly ; to sneer at 
Lilt, a ballad ; a tune ; to sing 
Limmer, a kept mistress, a strunflpet 
Limp't, limped, hobbled 
Link, to trip along 
Linkin', trijijiing 
Linn, a waterfall ; a precipicco 
Lint, flax 

Lint i' tlie bell, flax in flower 
Lintwhite, a linnet 
Loan, or loanin', the place of milking 
Loof, tlie palm of the hand 
Loot, did let 
Looves, plural of loof 
Loun, a fellow, a ragamuffin ; a woman of 

easy virtue 
Loup, jump, leap 
Lowe, a llaiiie 
I Lowiii', fliiiiiing 
Lowrie, abbreviation of LawrencO 
1.0 wse, to loose 
I.ows'd, loosed 
Lug, the ear ; a handle 
Luggct, having a liandic 
Luggic, a ymall wooden dish with ohandit 
Luni, the cliimncy 

I. unci), a large piece of clice«<, flesh, &Ct 
l.unt, a column of smoke; to smoke 
l.iintin'. smoking 
L> oil, of a ua.\cd colour, gray 



(7) 



GLOSSAHY. 



I 



M 

MAE,hiore 

JIair, more 

Mai St, most, almost 

Blaistly, mostly 

JVIak, to make 

Alakin', making 

Mailen, a farm 

Mallie, Molly 

Mang, among 

Manse, the parsonage house, where the tninis- 
ter lives 

Manteele, a mantle 

Mark, marks. (This and several other nouns 
which in English require an s to form the 
plural, are in Scotch, like the words sheep, 
deer, the same in both numbers.) 

Marled, variegated ; spotted 

Mar's year, the year 1715 

Mashlum, meslin, mixed com 

Mask, to mash, as malt, &c. 

Maskin-pat, a tea-pot 

Maud, maad, a plaid worn by shephefds, &c. 

Maukin, a hare 

Maun, must 

Mavis, the thrush 

Maw, to mow 

Mawin', mowing 

Meere, a mare 

Meikle, meickle, much 

Melancholious, mournful 

Melder, corn, or grain of any kind, sent to 
the mill to be ground 

31 ell, to meddle. Also a mallet for pounding 
barley in a stone trough 

Mel vie, to soil with meal 

Men', to mend 

Mense, good manners, decorum 

Menseless, ill-bred, rude, impudent 

Jlessin, a small dog 

Midden, a dunghill 

Midden-hole, a gutter at the bottom of 3 dung- 
hill 

Mim, prim, affectedly meek 

Min', mind ; resemblance 

Mind't, mind it ; resolved, intending 

Minnie, mother, dam 

31irk, mirkest, dark, darkest 

Misca', to abuse, to call names 

Misca'd, abused 

Mislear'd, mischievous, unmannerly 

Misteuk, mistook 

Mither, a mother 

IMixtie-maxtie, confusedly mixed 

Moistify, to moisten 

Mony, or monie, many 

ilools, dust, earth, the earth of the grave ; to 
rake i' the mools ; to lay in the dust 

3Ioop, to nibble as a sheep 

AJoorlan', of or belonging to moors 

Morn, the next day, to-morrow 

Mou, the mouth 

Jloudiwort, a mole 

Mousie, diminutive of mouse" 

JJuckle, or mickle, great, big, much 

Musie, diminutive of muse 

Mwslitj-kail, btotli, composed simply of water, 
shelled barley, and greens 

Mutchkin, an iinglish pint 

Wy6«l, myself 



(8) 



IT 

NA, no, not, not 

Nae, no, not any 

Naething, or naithing, nothing 

Naig, a liorse 

Nane, none 

Nappy, ale ; to be tipsy 

Negleckit, neglected 

Neuk, a nook 

Niest, next 

Nieve, the fist 

Nievefu', handful 

Niffer, an exchange ; to exchange, to barter 

IS'iger, a negro 

Nine-tail'd-cat, a hangman's whip 

Nit, a nut 

Norland, of or belonging to the north 

Notic't, noticed 

Nowte, black cattle ^ 



O 



O', of 

Ochils, name of a range of mountains in Claclu 

mannon and Kinross-shires 
O haith, O faith ! an oatn 
Ony, or onie, atiy 
Or, is often used for ere, before 
Ora, or orra, supernumerary, that can be 

spared 
O't, ofit • 

Ourie, shivering ; drooping 
Oursel', or oursels, ourselves 
Outlers, cattle not housed 
Owre, over ; too 
Owre-hip, a way of fetching a blow vith the 

hammer over the arm 



PACK, intimate, familiar; twelve stone of 

wool 
Painch, paunch 
Paitrick, a partridge 
Pang, to cram 
Parle, speech 
Parritch, an oatmeal pudding, a velUknowi 

Scotch dish 
Pat, did put ; a pot 
Pattle, or pettle, a plough-staff 
Paughty, proud, haughtj 
Pauky, or pawkie, cunning, sly 
Pay't, paid ; beat 
Pech, to fetch the breath short, ai in an asth* 

ma 
Pechan, the crop, the stomach 
PeeUn', peeling, the rind of fruit 
Pet, a domesticated slieep, &c. 
Pettle, to cherish ; a plough-staff 
Philabegs, short petticoats worn by the BIgb* 

landmen 
Phraise, fair spcehes, flattery ; to flatter 
Phraisin', flattery 
Pibroch, Highland war music adapted to thf 

bamiipe 
Pickle, a small quantity 
Pine, pain, uneasiness 
Pit, to put 
Placard, public procIamAtiMl 



I 



GLOSSARY. 



Plack, an old Scotch coin, the third part of a 
Scotch penny, twelve of which make an 
English penny 

Plackless, penniless, without money 

Platie, diminutive of plate 

Flew, or pleugh, a plough 

Pliskie, a trick 

Poind, to seize cattle or goods for rent, as the 
laws of Scotland allow 

Poortith, poverty 

Pou, to pull 

Pouk, to pluck 

Poussie, a hare, or cat 

Pout, a poult, a chick 

Pou't, did pull 

Powtli,ery, like powder 

Pow, the head, the skull 

Pownie, a little horse 

Powther, or pouther, powder 

Preen, a pin 

Prent, to print ; print 

Prie, to taste 

Prie'd, tasted 

Prief, proof 

Prig, to cheapen ; to dispute 

Priggin, cheajiening 

Primsie, demure, precise 

Propone, to lay down, to propose 

Provoses, provosts 

Puddock-stool, a musheroom, fungus 

Pund, pound ; pounds 

Pyle, — a pyle o' caff, a single grain of chaff 



QUAT, toquit 
Quak, to quake 
Quey, a cow from one to two years old 

R 

RAGWEED, the herb ragwort 

Raible, to rattle nonsense 
! Rair, to roar 

Raize, to madden, to inflam* 

Ram-feezl'd, fatigued ; overspread 

Ram-stam, thoughtless, forward 
I Raploch, properly a coarse cloth ; but used as 

an adnoun for coarse 
' Rarely, excellently, very well 
' Rash, a rush ; rash-buss, a bush of rushes 
i Ratton, a rat 

' Raucle, rash ; stout ; fearless 
i Raught, reached 
! Raw, a row 
[ Rax, to stretch 
j Ream , cream ; to cream 
' Reaming, brimful, frothing 

Reave, rove 
i Reck, to heed 

Red<:, counsel ; to counsel 

Rod. waushod, walking in blood over the shoe, 
tops 

Red-wu>l, stark mad 

Ree, hall drunk, fuddled 

Reck, smoke 

Rcekin', smoking 
I Reekit, smoked ; smoky 
I Remead, renv'dy 

Requite, requited 

Rest, to stand restive 

Kestit. stood restive ; stunted ; witber«d 



Restricked, restricted 

Rew, to repent, to compassionate 

Rief, reef, plenty 

Rief randies, sturdy beggars 

Rig, a ridge 

Itigwiddie, rigwoodie, the rope or chain that 

crosses the saddle of a horse to support the 

spokes of a cart ; spare, withered, sapless 
Rin, to run, to melt 
Rinnin', running 
Rink, the course of the stones ; a term in curl« 

ing on ice 
Rip, a handful of unthrashed corn 
Riskit, made a noise like the tearing of roots 
Rockih', spinning on the rock, or distaff 
Rood, stands likewise for tlie plural roods 
Roon, a shred, a border or selvage 
Roose, to praise, to commend 
Roosty, rusty 

Roun', round, in the circle of neighbourhood 
Roupet, hoarse, as with a cold 
Routhie, plentiful 
Row, to roll, to wrap 
Row't, rolled, wrapped 
Rowte, to low, to bellow 
Routh, or routh, plenty 
Rowtin', lowing 
Rozet, rosin 
Rung, a cudgel 
Runkled, wrinkled 

Runt, the stem of colewort or cabbage 
Ruth, a woman's name ; the book so called } 

sorrow 
Ryke, to reach 



> 



(9) 



SAE, so 

Saft, soft 

Sair, to serve ; a sore 

Sairly, or sairlie, sorely 

Sair't, served 

Sark, a shirt ; a shift 

Sarkit, provided in shirts 

Saugh, the willow 

Saul, soul 

Saumont, salmon 

Saunt, a saint 

Saut, salt, adj. salt 

Saw, to sow 

Sawin', sowing 

Sax, six 

Scaith, to damage, to injure; injuiy 

Scar, a cliff 

Scaud, to scald 

Scauld, to scold 

Scaur, apt to be scared 

Scawl, a scold ; a termagant 

Scon, a cake of bread 

Sconner, a loathing ; to loathe 

Scraich, to scream as a hen, partridge, Ac 

Screed, to tear ; a rent 

Scrieve, to glide swiftly along 

Scrievin, gleesomely ; swiltly , 

Scrimp, to scant 

Scrimjiet, did scant ; scanty 

See'd, did see 

Seizin', seizing 

Sel, self; a body's sel, one s self alone 

Sell't, did sell 

Sen', to send 

tent', I, &c sent, or did send it; send it 



GLOSSARY 



Bervan', scrvanj * 

Settlin', settling; to get a settlin', to be fright- 
ed into quietness 

Sets, sets off, goes ajvay 

Shachled, distorted ; shapeless 

Shaird, a shied, a shard 

fihangan, a stick cleft at one end for putting 
the tail of a dog, &c. into, by way of mis- 
chief, or to frighten him away 

Shaver, a humorous wag ; a barber 

Shaw, to show ; a small wood in a hollow 

Sheen, bright, shining 

Sheep-shank ; to think one's self nae sheep- 
shank, to be conceited 

Sherra-inoor, sherift-moor, the famous battle 
fought in the rebellion, A. D. 1715 

Sheugh, a ditch, a trench, a sluice 

Shiel, a ditch, a trench, a sluice 

Shiel, a shed 

ShiU, shrill 

Shog, a shock ; a push off at one side 

Shool, a shovel 

Shoon, shoes 

Shore, to offer, to threaten 

Shor'd, offered 

Shouther, the shoulder 

Sliure, did shear, shore 

Sic, such 

Sicker, sure, steady 

Sidelins, sidelong, slanting 

Siller, silver ; money 

Simmer, summer 

Sin, a son 

Sin', since 

Skaith, see scaith 

Skellum, a worthless fellow 

Skelp, to strike, to slap ; to walk wit'n a smart 
tripping step ; a smart stroke 

Skelpie-limmer, a reproachful term in female 
scolding 

Skelpin', stepping, walking 

Skiegh, orskeigh, proud, nice, highmettled 

Skinkhn, a small ])ortion 

Skirl, to shriek, to cry shrilly 

Skirling, shrieking, crying 

Skirl't, shrieked 

Sklent, slant ; to run aslant, to deviate from 
truth 

Sklented, ran, or hit, in an oblique direction 

Skouth, freedom to converse without restraint ; 
range, scope 

Skriegh, a scream ; to scream 

Skyrin', shining; making a groat show 

Skyte, force, very forcible motion 

Slae, a sloe 

Slade, did slide 

Slap, a gate ; a breach in a fence 

Slaver, saliva ; to emit saliva 

Slaw, slow 

Sice, sly ; slcest, sliest 

Sleekit, slepk ; sly 

Sliddry, slippery 

Slype, to fall over, as a wet furrow from the 
plougli 

Slypet, fell 

Sma', small 

Smcddum, dust, powder; mcltlc, sense 

Smiddy, a smithy 

Smoor, to smother 

Smoor'd, smothered 

Smoutie, smutty^ obscene, tiply 

Sniytrie, a numerous collecuon of small indi- 
vidual 

ao) 



Snapper, to stumble, a stumble 

Snasii, abuse. Billingsgate 

Snaw, snow ; to snow 

Snaw-broo, melted snow 

Snawie, snowy 

Sncck, snick, the latch, of a door 

Sncd, to lop, to cut off 

Snceshin, snuff 

Sneeshin-mill, a snuff-box 

Snell, bitter, biting 

Snick-drawing, trick-contriving, crafty 

Snirtle, to laugh rcstrainedly 

Snood, a ribbon for binding the hair 

Snool, one whose spirit is broken with oppres* 

sive slavery ; to submit tamely, to sneak 
Snoove, to go smoothly and constantly ; to 

sneak 
Snowk, to scent or snuif, as a dog, &c 
Snowkit, scented, snufied 
Sonsie, having sweet, engaging looks ; lucky 

jolly 
Soom, to swim 
Sooth, truth, a petty oath 
Sough, a heavy sigh, a sound dying on tlw 

ear 
Souple, flexible ; swift 
Souter, a shoemaker 
Sowens, a dish made of oatmeal ; the seeds o-, 

oatmeal soured, &c. flummery 
S«wp, a spoonful, a small quantity of an ' 

thing liquid 
Sowth, to try over a tune with a low whistle 
Sowiher, solder ; to solder, to cement 
Spae, to prophesy, to divine 
Sjiaul, a limb 

Spairge, to dash, to soil, as with mire 
Simviet, having the spavin 
Spean, spane, to wean 
Speat, or spate, a sweeping torrent, after raiB 

or thaw 
Sped, to climb 
Spence, the country parlour 
Spier, to ask, to inquire 
Si)icr't, inquired 
Splutter, a splutter, to splutter 
Si)leughan, a tobacco-pouch 
Splore, a froUc ; a noise, riot 
Sprackle, sprachle, to clamber 
SprUtlle, to scramble 
Sprcckled, spotted, speckled 
Si)ring, a quick air in music ; a Scottish reel 
Sprit, a tough-rooted plant, somelliing like 

rushes 
Sprittie, full of spirits 
Spunk, fire, mettle; wit 
Si)unkie, mettlesome, fiery; will-o'wisp, or ig« 

nis fatuus 
Spurtle, a slick, used in makisg oatmeal puit 



ding or porridge 
Squau, a crew, a party 



Sfjuatter, to flutter in water as a wild duck 

Squatlle, to sprawl 

Squcel, a scream, a screech ; to scream 

Staclier, to stagger 

Stack, a rick of corn, hay, &c. 

Stnggic, the diminutive of stag 

Stalwart, strong, ^tout 

Stan', to stand ; stan't, did stand 

Stane, a stone 

Stang, an acute pain ; a twinge ; to sting 

Stank, did slink ; a pool of standing wate* 

Slap, stop 

Sluik, btout 



GLOSSARY. 



Startle, to run as cattle stunp by ibe gad-fly 

Staumrel, a blockhead ; hali-wuted 

Slaw, did steal ; to surfeit 

Steel), to cram the belly 

Sieclvln, cramming 

StdCK, to shut ; a stitch 

Steer, to molest ; to stir 

Steeve, firm, compacted 

Stell, still 

Sten, to rear as a horse 

Sten't reared ^ 

Stents, tribute; dues '' nykind 

Stey, steep ; steyest. -" pest 

Stibble, stubble; ^ .j.e-rig, tho reaper in 
harvest who tiikft:^ j}e lead 

Stick an' stow, tij .My, altogether 

Stile', a cruich ; o .lalt, to limp 

Stimpart, die ciglith part of a Winchester 
bushel 

Stirk, a cow or bu. ock a year old 

Stock, a plant or jot of colewort, cabbage, 
&c 

Stockin, !i stocking; Throwing the stockin, 
when tlieb:i 1; and bridegroom are put into 
bed, and 'h; -uudle out, the former throws 
a stOL'k andom among the company, 

and .:. ; cjison whom it strikes is the next 
tha w ue married 

Stoiier, .. s'agger, to stammer 

Stookcii rriade up in shocks as com 

Stoor, i-ounding hollow, strong, and hoarse 

Si ot, :- . ox 

Stou or stowp, a kind of jug or dish witli a 

tlai.uie 

S.our, dust, more particularly dust in mo- 
tion 

Stowliiis, by stealtli ' 

Stown, s-^.en 

Stoyte, nmble 

.' > ike 

> ; to die a fair strae heath, to die 

in Ded 

Slrai.i, did strike , 

Sttai-;-* stroked 

S rapj> .. tail and handsome 

Stiaught, straight, to straighten 

Strec.i, stretched, tight ; to stretch 

Stri'Jjx , to straddle 

Stroa.,, to spout, to piss 

Studdic, an anvil 

Stumpie, diminutive of stump 

Strunt, spirituous liquor of any kind ; to walk 
sturdily ; huft", sullenness 

Stuff, corn or pulse of any kind 

Sturt, trouble ; to molest 

Sturtin, frighted 

Sucker, sugar 

Sud, should 

Sugh, the continued rushing noise of wind or 
water 

Southron, southern ; an old name for the Eng 
lish nation 

Swaird, sward 

Swall'd, swelled 

Swank, stately, jolly 

Swankie, or swanker, a tight strappin young 
fellow or girl 

Swap, an exchange ; to barter 

Swarf, to swoon ; a swoon 

Swat, did sweat 

Swatch, a sample 

Swats, drink ; good ale 



Swcaten, sweating 

Sweer, lazy, averse; clead>(weer,txtr«BMlytti 

verse 
Swoor, swore, did swear 
Swinge, to beat ; to wliip 
Swirl, a curve ; an eddymg blast, or pool | • 

knot in wood 
Swirlie, knaggie, full of knots 
Swith, get away 
Swither, to hesitate in choice ; an irretoluM 

wavering in choice 
Syne, since, ago ; then 



TACKETS, a kind of nails for driving ints 

the heals of shoes 
Tae, a toe ; three tae'd, having three prong! 
Tairge, a target 
Tak, to take ; takin, taking 
Tamtallan, the name of a mountain 
Tangle, a sea- weed 
Tap, the top 

Tapetless, heedless, foolish 
Tarrow, to murmur at one's allowanca 
Tarrow't, murmured 
Tarry-breeks, a sailor 
Tauld, or tald, told 

Taupie, a foolish, thoughtless young person 
Tanted, or tautie, matted togetlier ; spoken 

of hair or wool 
Tawie, that allows itself peaceably to be hand- 
led ; spoken of a horse, cow, &4.. 
Teat, a small quantity 
Teen, to provoke ; provocation 
Tedding, spreading after the mower 
Ten-hours bite, a slight feed to the hOTMl 

while in the yoke, in the forenoon 
Tent, a held-pulpit ; heed, caution ; to tekt 

heed ; to tend or herd cattls 
Tentie, heedful, cautious 
Tentless, heedless 
Teugh, tough 
Thack, thatch ; thack an' rape, clothing nfc 

cessaries 
Thae, these 

Thairms, small gats ; fiddle-atringfl 
Thankit, thanked 
Theekit, thatched 
Thegither, together 
Themsel, themselves 
Thick, intimate, familiar 
Thievcless, cold, dry, spited ; spoken of • 

person's demeanour 
Thir, these 
Thirl, thrill 

Thirled, thrilled, vibrated 
Thole, to suffer, to endure 
Tho we, a thaw ; to tliaw 
Thowless, slack, lazy 
Thrang, throng ; a crowd 
Tlirapple, throat, windpipe 
Thrave, twenty-four sheaves or two shoda of 

corn ; a considerable number 
Thraw, to sprain, to twist ; to contradict 
'1 hrawin, twisting, &c. 
Thrawn, sprained, twisted ; contradicted 
Threap, to maintain by dint of assertion 
Threshin, thrashing 
Threteen, thirteen 
Thrisde, thistle 
Through, to go on with ; to make out 



GLOSSARY. 



Throuther, pell-mell, confusedly 

Thud, to make a loud intermittent noise 

Thumpit, timmped 

Thysel, tliyself 

Till't, to it 

Timmer, timber 

Tijie, to lose ; tint, lost 

Tinkler, a tinker 

Tii.t the gate, lost the way 

Tip, a ram 

Tippence, twopence 

1 irl, to wake as light noiss ; to uncover 

Tirlin, uncovering 

Tither, the other 

Tittle, to whisper 

Tittlin, whispering 

Tocher, marriage portion 

Tod, a fox 

Toddle, to totter, like the «'alk cf a child 

Toddlin, tottering 

Tooni, empty, to empty 

Toop, a ram 

Toun, a hamlet ; a HiRh-housc 

Tout, the blast of a horn or trumpet ; to blow 
a horn, &c. 

Tow, a rope 

'I'owmond, a twelvemoiilh 

Towzie, rough, ishaggy 

Toy, a very old fashion of female head-dress 

Toyte, to totter like old age 

Transmugritied, transmigrated, metamorphos- 
ed 

Trashtrie, trash 

Trews, trowsers 

Trickie, full of tricks 

Trig, spruce, neat 

Trimly, excellently ' 

l^ow, to believe 

Trowth, truth, a petty oath 

Tryste, an appointment ; a fair 

Trysted, appointed ; To tryste, to make an 
appointment 

Try't, tried 

Tug, raw hide, of which in old times plough- 
traces were frequently made 

Tulzie, a quarrel; to quarrel, ' o fgV: 

Twa, two 

Twa-three, a few 

'Twad, it would 

Twal, twelve ; twal-pennie worth, a small 
quantity, a penny-worth 

N.B. One penny English is 12d Scotch 

Twin, to part 

Tyke, a dog 

U 

UNCO, strange, uncoutli; very, very great, 

prodigious 
Uncos, nev/s 
Unkenn'd, unknown 
Unsicker, unsure, unsteady 
Unskaith'd, undamaged, unhurt > 

Unwecting, unwittingly, unknowingly 
Upo', upon 
Urchin, a hedgehog 



VAP'RIN, vapouring 

Vera, very 

Virl, a ring round a column, &c. 

Vittle, corij of all kinds, food 



WA\ wnll ; wa's, walls 

W'abster, a weaver 

Wad, would ; to bet; abet, a pledge 

\\'adna, woulil not ' 

Wac, wo ; sonowful 

^\'acfu^ woful, sorrowful, wailing 

W'aesueks ! or waes me ! alas ! O the pity 

\V'aft, the cross thread that goes from the shut* 

tie through the web ; woof 
M'air, to lay out, to expend 
^Vale. choice ; to choose 
AValed, chose, chosen 
■W'alie, ample, large, jolly ; also an interjec« 

tion of distress 
Wame, the belly 
Wamefu', a belly-full 
AVanchancie, unlucky 
A\'anrestfu', restless 
U'ark, work 

\V'ark-lume, a tool to work with 
\A"arl, or warld, world 
A^'arlock, a wizard 

\rarly, worldly, eager on amassing wealth 
V\'arran, a warrant ; to warrant 
W'arst, worst 

Al'arstrd or warsl'd, wrestled 
\rastrie, prodigality 
Will, wet ; I wat, I wot, I know 
AV'ater-brose, brose made of meal and water 

sunply, without the addition of milk, but. 

ter, &c. 
Wattle, a twig, a wand 
\\'auble, to swing, to reel 
Waught, a draught 
AVaukit, thickened as fullers do cloth 
Waukjrife, not apt to sleep 
Waur, worse ; to worst 
Waur't, worsted 
M'ean, or weanic, a child 
Weari"?, or weary ; many a weary body, many 

a different person 
Weasop , weasand 

WScU'if t' the stocking. See Stocking 
W.'e, Utue; Wee things, little ones; Wee 

bit, a small maiter 
Weel, well; W«elfare, welfare 
AVeet, rain, V/^etriCss 
Weird, fate 
We'se, we shall] 
Wha, who 
Whaizle, to wheeze 
Whalpit, whelped 
Whang, a leaihern string ; a piece of cheese, 

bread, &c. ; to give the strappado 
Whare, where; AV'hare'er, wherever 
W'heep, to fly lumbly, jerk ; penny-wheep, 

small beer 
Whase, whose 
Whatreck, nevertheless 
Whid, the motion of a hare, running but not 

frighisd ; a lie 
Whiddin . running as a hare or cony 
\Vhigmeieeries, whims, fancies, crotchets 
AVhiiigin', crying, complaining, fretting 
AVliirhgigi'\is, useless ornaments, trifling ap< 

pendatj'cs 
■S^'liiss-le, a whistle ; to whistle 
■Wliist, si'euce; to hold oneV. whisht, tob* 

silent 



(12^ 



GLOSSARY 



Wliisk, to sweep, to lash 

Wliiskit, lashca 

M'hitter, a hearty draught of liquor 

\A'hun-stane, a whin-stone , 

Whyles, whiles, sometimes 

Wi', with 

"VVicht, wight, powerful, strong; inventive; 
of a superior genius 

Wick, to strike a stone in an oblique direc- 
tion ; a term in curling 

AVicker, willow (tlie smaller sort) 

Wiel, a small whirlpool 

Witie, a diminutive or endearing term for 
wife 

Wilyart, bashful and reserved ; avoiding so- 
ciety or appearing awkward in it, wild, ti- 
mid, strange 

Wimple, to meander 

"Wimpl't, meandered 

"Wimplin', waving, meandering 

Win, to win, to winnow 

Win't, winded as a bottom of yam 

Win', wind ; Win's, winds 

Winna, will not 

Winnock, a window 

Winsome, hearty, vaunted, gay 

Win tie, a staggering motion ; to stagger j^ to 
reel 

Winze, an oath 

W^iss, to wish 

Withouten, without 

Wizen'd, hide-bound, dried, shrunk 

AVonner, a wonder ; a contemptuous appella- 
tion 

Wons, dwells 

Woo', wool 

"Woo, to court, to make love to 

Woodie, a rone, more properly one made of 
withes or willows 

Woor-bab, the garter knotted below llic knee 
with a coui)le of loops 

(1.3) 



■Wordy, worthy 

Worset, worsted 

M'ow, an exclamation of pleasure or won- 
der 

\Vrack, to teaze, to vex 

W raith, a spirit, or gliost ; an apparition ex- 
actly like a living person, whose appearance 
is said to forbode the person's approaching 
death 

"\^''rang, wrong ; to wrong 

Wreetn, a drifted heap of snow 

Wud, mad, distracted 

AVumble, a wimble 

M'yle, to beguile 

"Wyliecot, a flannel vest 

"W'yte, blame ; to blame 



YAD, an old mare ; a worn out horse 

Yc ; tliis pronoun is frequently used for thou 

Yearns, longs much 

Yearlings, born in the same year, coevals 

Year is used both for singular and plural years 

Yearn, earn, an eagle, an ospray 

Yell, barren, that gives no milk 

Yerk, to lash, to jerk 

Yerkit, jerked, lashed 

^'estieen, yesternight 

Yett, a gate, such as is usually at the entrance 

into a farm-yard or field 
"i'ill, ale 
Yird, earth 

^'okin', yoking ; a bout 
Yont, beyond 
Vourscl' yourself 
Yowc, a ewe 

\'owie, diminutive of yowc 
Vulc, Christmas 



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